Truth Be Told
by GatesKeeper
Summary: [Destiel] Sam's tired of Dean's and Cas' unresolved issues-especially after 12x10. So, he comes up with a plan. Lately, the internet has been buzzing about a list of questions that are supposed to help foster communication between partners-and OK, it's called '36 Questions That Lead to Love'-but that's not the goal, just a possible side effect-if he can get them to play along.
1. Chapter 1

"What the hell? _Sam!_" Dean protests, stumbling in the direction his brother is pushing him. Another left turn brings them to the same hallway as their bedrooms, but the youngest Winchester seems to have an even-more specific destination in mind, as he manhandles him towards Cas's door.

"Heard of knocking?" Dean demands, even though he can think of plenty of times he barged into the angel's room uninvited. Cas blinks up at the two men with blue-eyed confusion from where he sits on his bed, nursing a book, but doesn't say anything.

"We need to talk," Sam finally says, closing the door behind him and quickly drawing a sigil on the doorknob that causes it to glow red. "More specifically, _you two_ need to talk."

Dean turns to face him, now looking just as bewildered as Cas, but without squinting and tilting his head. "What are you _on_ about? Cas and I are fine-" He swings back to the angel for support. "Tell him that we're fine."

"As far as I aware, Dean and I are not currently in an argument or harboring resentful feelings towards each other," the angel agrees, measuredly, though he does, at last, set his book down on the bedside table, perhaps thinking it unlikely that he will get to return to it anytime soon.

"Maybe, right at this moment, you're cool. But of all the ways I've considered I might die, that car ride when we were going to see Ishim would have been one of the least acceptable options!" Sam nearly shouts, throwing his hands up in the air.

Dean huffs, "Overdramatic." A few short strides takes him over to Cas's bed, where he sits with his back against the angel's stretched-out legs as if to, once again, prove that there isn't any trouble there.

"You couldn't keep your eyes on the road for more than five minutes, you were so busy fighting!"

"It _was_ rather reckless driving," Castiel agrees, moving over to give Dean more room.

"Cas, you were almost as bad," Sam insists.

"I was not in control of a moving vehicle."

The youngest Winchester lets out a bone-weary sigh. "My point is that, as much as you guys are willing to put your lives on the line for one another, you're really not willing to listen when the other has something to say. And yeah, eventually, you get past whatever argument you're having by pretending like it never happened, but you never address the root of the problem, so the same issues come up a year or two later. And when they _do_ boil over again, it doesn't just affect you, or our family, but sometimes, it literally affects our ability to protect the _world_. So, today you're gonna talk—whether you like it or not."

"And how are you going to manage that?" Dean wants to know, arms crossed, his face carefully concealing the tiny thrum of tension stirring in his stomach.

"I'm glad you asked," Sam says with a smile that Dean definitely doesn't like and suddenly a yellow powder is thrown in his face. He swats the air, coughing heavily, while his throat and nose get overwhelmed by the spicy, dusty odor—it's like what he would imagine the attic of an Egyptian tomb pyramid tasting like.

Cas samples the air with a little bit more restraint before his eyes narrow with annoyance. "Truth spell, Sam?"

"Oh, no fuckin' way, Sasquatch!" Dean says, leaping up and running toward the door, which, of course, Sam already locked with his runes.

"Come on, I'm not asking for much," his brother says, over Dean's obvious snort and the continued rattle of the doorknob. "I found this activity online that is supposed to foster communication between two people. You both answer these 36 questions and then you're supposed to look into each other's eyes for four minutes. If you do that, regardless of the outcome, I'll give you the anecdote and unlock the room."

"_Or,_" Dean responds, clenching his fist. "Cas and I don't say squat and we hold you down until you let us out."

"I don't think you will," Sam says, moving over to the lone chair in the room that sits in front of Cas's mostly bare desk.

"Why not?"

"Because this is important. And I think Cas at least understands that."

The two brothers turn as one to the angel, as if waiting for his verdict, the silence making the room more claustrophobic than usual. Finally, Cas breaks eye contact to look down at his clasped fingers. It is one of several human gestures he has picked up over the years.

"Sam also breathed in some of the powder. He believes that he is telling the truth—and I am inclined to trust his judgment."

Dean catches a glimpse of himself in the room's one tiny mirror, so he knows just how furious he seems at the moment. Eyes dark, nostrils slightly flared, his clenched fists making the line of his shoulders look hard. And yet, as justified as he thinks he is to feel that way, he's seen himself like this a few times before—and it was almost always followed by doing something he regrets. So, instead of yelling, he takes a few minutes to consciously force his muscles to relax—first the ones in his hands, then in his upper chest, and then in his jaw. "What are these questions?" he asks, tightly, knowing there are some things he has never given voice to out loud and never will if he can help it.

Sam hands him his phone.

"Sammy!" Dean growls, getting angry all over again, tossing the phone over to Cas to look at. "36 Questions That Lead to Love? Really?"

"OK, yes, that's what it's called," Sam defends. "But there have been tons of articles done on how strangers can grow closer by answering these questions too—or co-workers. There is nothing inherently romantic about them. And with everything you two have been through, I think you'd both agree that you are a little more—_more_—than regular guy friends who meet up at a bar once a week to discuss football."

"Look, why don't we just—start—and then if there ends up being something on there that is really uncomfortable, a 2/3 vote will let you skip it."

Dean grumbles under his breath, but eventually lets out a curt, "Fine. But I'm getting you back for this later, _Samantha._"

"I'm hoping that this will be worth it," his brother responds, though with a somewhat-nervous smile.


	2. Chapter 2

"Given the choice of anyone in the world, who would you want as a dinner guest?" Sam reads off first.

"Oh, yeah, I can _definitely_ see how these questions are going to make a world of difference in Cas' and my relationship." Dean snarks, resting back against the door.

"You do?" Cas asks, the question mark at the end of his sentence sounding like a lone pebble kicked up while driving along the gravel road that is his voice.

"No, Cas," Sam shakes his head with a painful smile. "Apparently, the truth spell doesn't mind the use of sarcasm."

"If it's so easy," the youngest Winchester continues, twisting his back to look at his brother. "Why don't you answer it first, Dean?"

"Don't know. Han Solo? Indiana Jones?"

"Why not just pick Harrison Ford, then?"

"Because Harrison Ford is a past-his-prime actor. Han Solo is a _bad ass._"

"How about someone who is not fictional?" Sam prompts with a raise of his eyebrows. "After all, the question does say 'in the world', not 'a galaxy far, far away.'"

"I really should have let you go hungry more as a child. Teach you some gratitude," Dean mutters, wondering, idly, if they are going to get out of this room in time for dinner. He'd already set out some ground beef on the kitchen counter to thaw—and now his stomach is growling, thinking about the burgers he was gonna make. "You know, the least you could have done was stock this room with some beer and snacks."

"This questionnaire is only supposed to take an hour, Dean. You're the one who's stretching it out."

"Fine." Dean tries wracking his brain for someone he'd like sharing a meal with. He can think of several hot models and actresses, but can't single anyone out and he's never had much of an interest in sports… "Asa Fox," he picks at last, unexpectedly excited by the prospect of meeting the famous hunter even though he and Sam probably had more name recognition at this point.

Sam smiles and nods his head. "And you, Cas?"

"I would like to eat with you and Dean."

Dean blinks. "You do that all the time, Cas!"

"True. But there is no one I'd rather spend time with. Additionally, most humans wouldn't understand why I would invite someone to a meal and then not eat any of the food myself," he adds, as an afterthought.

Dean can't help it; he grins, using only the corners of his mouth.

"Well, Cas," Sam says, reaching over to clap him on the shoulder. "We like having dinner with you, too."

Cas's returning smile would be considered small on a normal person, but, on him, it is practically beaming. And it's over such a small thing. Seeing it simultaneously makes Dean happy and a little guilty, because it reminds him he could probably put that smile on his face more if he tried. "So…what's the next question?" he asks to give his mind something else to think about.

Sam looks at his phone. "Would you like to be famous? In what way?"

"No," Cas says with a shudder at the same time Dean says, "Nah."

"I probably would be considered infamous among the angels," Cas elaborates, sadly. "But that was never something I wanted. Plus, the angels that are more well-known to humans, like Michael and Gabriel, tend to get prayed to a lot more, which must be very distracting."

"We had to put Baby on lock-up after the Leviathans plastered our mugs everywhere. And it made hunting a hell of a lot more difficult. I'll save being famous for our blue-steel counterparts," Dean says, briefly recalling their stint posing as 'Jared' and 'Jensen.'

"Fair enough," Sam says, obviously thinking of the same memory. "Before making a telephone call, do you ever rehearse what you are going to say? Why?"

"Uh, no?" Dean responds. _What sort of questions are these?_ "I am a staunch supporter of the flying-by-the-seat-of-your-pants school of thought." He sees a movement out of the corner of his eye. "It's an expression, Cas."

"Oh," the angel says, straightening out his tie. He's wearing the one with the stripes, which looks good on him, but not as good as the blue solid. "I will admit to giving my voice mail recordings some extra thought since you've both told me my old ones were…unconventional. However, I still hear you laughing when you leave a message, so I don't think I've succeeded."

"Your voicemail message is great. Now, if only you would actually _answer_ them sometimes…" Dean says, pointedly, raising his eyebrows.

"I've already apologized for causing you distress. But there are times—like when I am in Heaven—where I simply cannot respond to you."

"OK, OK, this is good," Sam breathes. "I know that this is one point you guys often struggle with, so let's take a minute to clear the air…Dean, what makes you so upset about when Cas doesn't call?"

"What do you mean, what makes me upset? He just packs up and leaves—sometimes, doesn't even bother to tell us where he's going in the first place, no timeline on when he'll be back. So, what, I'm just supposed to spend a month hoping he hasn't been kidnapped or killed?"

"Any other reason?"

Dean opens his mouth to say, "No," but "Yes" slips out instead. He quickly bites his tongue to stop it from going rogue again, but there is a pressure building inside of him, starting at the pit of his stomach and working his way up, like a volcano getting ready to explode. Sam seems to know what's going on because he continues to wait patiently and Cas…Dean refuses to look at Cas.

"I…" he grits, attempting to fight what's coming next. "I also can't help but wonder if you don't call because you don't want to deal with us anymore. I mean, you're an _angel_, of course you want to be in _Heaven_—as fucked up as it is. You already tried to lock yourself up there once. So, I figure someday, you might just decide to stay there—and who knows if we'd even get a goodbye?" By the end, his voice is hoarse from trying, and failing, to hold himself back.

"Dean," Cas says, which means something completely different than when he repeats his name again. "_Dean_…I told you once that, much of the time, I prefer to be here…with you…and I meant it. But I have also made some great mistakes since we first met and I—I can't live with myself if I don't try to correct them. And so, I leave you and I fight and I struggle—and when I have a chance—I come back here and I let myself be happy…for a little bit, even though I don't deserve to be."

"I also, apparently incorrectly, assumed you wouldn't be too bothered by my absences. You ask for my presence when my powers can help out—and when it is a mission you can handle on your own, I thought that I would be most useful to you in Heaven or doing other work."

"Cas," Sam breaks in gently. "You do know we want you around…just to have you around, right? To watch movies or listen to music or just hang out with us in the library…Right?"

"I…was not sure of that, no."

Dean can't believe what he is hearing. "Dude, you're my best friend…And you thought we only cared about you to be our cavalry in a fight?"

Cas hesitates again.

"You just said you liked being around us, right?" Cas nods. "Well, didn't you think this profound bond stuff worked both ways?" The two of them stare at each other, probing, assessing, and finally just looking at one another as if, this time, they'll finally pierce the mystery that they've been trying to solve for years. Dean sometimes wonders if the angel's gaze contains a touch of his healing grace because in the moments when they're like this, the ache in his lower back seems to recede, as does the lingering touches of headache behind his temples.

"So," Sam coughs. "Just to recap. Dean, you've been upset with Cas for always leaving. And Cas, you thought that Dean and I didn't want you to stay—at least when you're not actively contributing something to a hunt. You realize you're both dumbasses, right?"

"We were…misinformed," the angel offers instead, though there is a lightness in him that wasn't there a moment before. "Less dumb, less ass." He full-on smiles at Dean then and Dean nods and smiles back.

"So, you think, between the three of us, we can come up with a plan for this problem in the future? Cas could be more forthcoming about his plans—and maybe we can work up a spell that would allow him to…reverse-pray…to us, so we at least know that he's safe."

Cas tilts his head. "That seems like a worthwhile endeavor."

"Yeah," Dean agrees, clearing his throat. "Yeah, that would be good." He kicks off the door for the first time since the questions started and returns to Cas's bed. The angel finally stops reclining in favor of sitting side-by-side with the hunter. And while Dean had been telling the truth when he said he and Cas were fine before, he thinks that maybe they are doing a little bit better now—though he'd rather eat a salad than admit that to Sam.


	3. Chapter 3

"So…" Sam begins again, his posture relaxing as he watches Dean's do the same. "What would constitute a perfect day for you?"

"Constitute," Dean snorts. "Did Cas write these questions?"

He waits for the angel to answer with a blink and an all-too-honest, "No," but instead, he rolls his eyes with practiced ease. "I imagine Dean's involves finding an all-you-can-eat pie buffet inside a strip club." Which, Dean has to admit, would be kinda awesome, but he's spent enough last nights on earth drinking and hooking up to know there are more things worth putting on a bucket list.

"Shows what you know. Beach day. You, me, Sammy, and matching floral shirts…" Although, even in his vision, Cas insists on bringing his trench coat along to the beach, laying it out on the sand like a towel.

Cas' face shows nothing at first as he absorbs this information, but then a slow smile grows on his face like he can see the picture in Dean's mind, too.

"We could do that, you know," Sam points out. "It's not like we haven't earned a vacation."

Dean shakes his head, pushing up the arms of his flannel overshirt to rest around his elbows. "As soon as we try, some hunt will come up or someone we thought was dead will come back to life or maybe the bunker will catch fire. Something."

"Dean…" Sam begins, but Castiel cuts him off, the frown between his eyebrows matching the one twitching at the corners of his lips.

"Why do you always deny yourself good things out of the assumption that they'll fall apart?" he says with genuine frustration. "You want to go. We should try. And if something comes up, we'll deal with it, and _then_ we'll go. It's not like every motel near a beach needs advanced booking."

"Sam-" Cas' eyes snap to the youngest Winchester brother. "What would be your perfect day?" Dean wonders if the angel didn't use 'constitute' on purpose.

"Nuh-uh," Sam responds, shaking his head like a goddamn shampoo commercial. "This is supposed to be about you guys."

"Come on, Sam, humor the angel," Dean offers in back-up, finding that he does want to know. He thinks about taking a preteen Sam out to the woods to launch fireworks, cobbling together crappy Christmases in motel rooms while they waited for John to get back from places unknown, hitting up Vegas together—all of the successful and sometimes unsuccessful ways he has tried to carve out moments of happiness for his brother—and thinking he wouldn't mind adding another to his mental list.

"Uh," Sam says, blushing under the effects of the truth spell. "I was actually reading about this yoga and meditative retreat that-"

Dean makes a face like he just smelled something a few days past ripe. "You know what—you're right. This isn't about you. Cas—perfect day. What is it?"

"There is a botanical garden and bee sanctuary in California-" And even though that sounds only slightly less suck-ass than Sam's thing, Dean lets Cas ramble on for a few more sentences about _flight patterns_ and _honeycomb structure_ before demanding they move on to the next question.

"When did you last sing to yourself? To someone else?"

"In the shower a week ago…And, uh, I might have done some karaoke as a demon," Dean says, arms crossed while looking resolutely to the left of his brother's gaze.

Cas mumbles something under his breath.

"What was that?" Sam asks, with raised eyebrows.

"I _said,_" Cas huffs in frustration. "That when I was babysitting Nora's daughter, back when I was human, I sang her a few…lullabies."

"Like 'Rock-a-Bye Baby' or what?" Dean wants to know, not really sure why he's pushing it except for the extra-stiffness in Cas' posture.

Once again, Cas speaks very quietly and is asked to repeat himself. "Believe It or Not. Calling All Angels. Angel With a Shotgun," he murmurs, looking increasingly embarrassed.

Dean bursts out with laugher. "Got quite a theme there."

"Next question, please, Sam," Cas begs, while Dean starts humming under his breath. _"I'm an angel with a shotgun, fighting 'til the wars won. I don't care if Heaven won't take me back."_ Cas glares at him—but probably not as hard as he will once Dean changes the ringtone on his cellphone.

Sam looks down at his phone with humor. "If you were able to live to the age of 90 and retain either the mind or body of a 30-year-old for the last 60 years of your life, which would you want?"

Cas instantly seems skeptical. "This question is non-applicable to me. I am already several millennia over 90 and have had no problem utilizing vessels regardless of the age or gender-" He looks down at his white button-down shirt and black slacks, the oversized clothing hiding a body that, Dean has seen from glimpses, is surprisingly tan and muscular. "I suppose I have grown rather fond of this shape, however."

Dean is about to give an unthinking, "Me, too, Buddy" when—wait a minute. "Gender?"

"Yes…" Cas says, slowly, like he is talking to a small child. "You _know_ this, Dean. You've seen me possess Claire, for one," he says with a flash of guilt behind his eyes. "And I have previously taken on other women's forms."

"Right…right. Because you're really a wavelength of celestial intent the size of the Chrysler building."

"Yes," Cas repeats, stoically.

Silence envelopes the room, Sam's eyes darting back and forth between them to see who will break it first but neither of them does. "Anything else you want to ask, Dean?" The youngest Winchester prods.

Dean feels a word forming behind his teeth while his mind races to figure out what word that will be. Is there more he wants to know? Yes, even though he hasn't quite defined what that is. But does he want to bring it up here—here in Castiel, Angel of the Lord's bedroom, with his brother watching? "No," he says, truthfully, though the all-too casual shrug of his shoulders is definitely a lie of sorts.

He rolls his right index finger in a circling motion, indicating that Sam needs to get this show on the road.

"OK then…" the youngest Winchester sounds disappointed but determined. His face is lit from below by the glow of the screen. "Do you have a secret hunch about how you will die?"

The three of them look at each other, silently agreeing on the answer to that question—and maybe remembering a few times they _did_ die—and deciding that they can skip this one.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean is still thinking about Cas' vessel while Sam scrolls to the next question. He understands on a certain level. Dude's not a dude, just dude-shaped at the moment. Not a man, but a collection of badass-angel-smiter and long-lost-puppy dog. He is full of obscure facts and jokes in languages Dean can't understand, who loves boring accountant wear and also socks with kittens on them.

And yet, when he pictures Cas, it is still messed-up dark hair and blue eyes that come to mind…and, you know…other things—like perpetual stubble and strong shoulders… He shifts on the bed slightly, causing the frame to squeak because it's not his memory foam. He feels weird, how clearly he can see every detail of Cas in his head, while studiously not turning to look at the angel for reference. And he can't help but wonder if he would be better or worse if the angel suddenly went out one day and picked a different form? Which makes no sense, because Dean doesn't care what he looks like. At all.

"Name three things you and your partner appear to have in common," Sam's voice cuts through his thoughts and Dean startles a little bit.

"Uh…"

"Are we supposed to agree on the three items or each produce three on our own?" Cas asks, and, for sure, he would have been a teacher's pet if he had ever had an occasion to go to school.

"Three each, I think. What do you each think you share?"

Cas seems to consider carefully. "Dean and I both value free will highly," and Dean wants to glare at him for taking an obvious one, though to be honest, he hadn't thought of it yet. "We both tend to act emotionally to problems-" Dean raises his eyebrows at that one. "And to make unilateral decisions that we should discuss with others first."

The oldest Winchester feels instantly defensive, which makes little sense because Cas is saying they _both_ do those things. But… "Seriously? You couldn't have just said we both like cheeseburgers?"

"The purpose of this exercise is, ultimately, to discuss our issues. I believe that some of the similarities I mentioned have contributed to our…tensions…in the past."

"I don't-" the oldest Winchester starts to say, but he can't get the lie out.

"Dean, come _on_," Sam gives him a pointed look. "You do make solo decisions all the time. And yes, it's always in the name of trying to help us or spare us-" Dean pictures crossroads demon deals and the light of angelic grace behind his brother's eyes and a knife point buried in a book by Cas' shoulder. "But you still do it and sometimes, it has some shitty consequences."

He grimaces and looks away, studying the cracks in the mortar in the brick wall beside him. "I know. I'm…," he breathes out deeply through his noise. "I'm trying to stop." He shifts his eyes down to his hands, not really seeing them though, until he feels Cas' warm fingers touching the pulse point of his left wrist and feels it jolt under his skin.

"I am trying, too," Cas soothes. And in that moment, he thinks he knows what memories the angel is thinking of: the Leviathan, Metatron, maybe even Naomi—although he didn't really have control over that one. Dean supposes this…this guilt and self-blame is something they share too. Not that he's gonna mention it.

"Cheeseburgers," he says again. "We both like cheeseburgers and comfortable silences and-" He scans his thoughts while licking the slight cut that is on his bottom lip. "We both know that family isn't just about who you're related to. Next question."

But of course Sam doesn't want to move on yet. "I feel like I should also add something here, especially since you know I'll be telling the _truth._" He is looking at neither of them in particular, but his voice seems targeted at Dean specifically, with the emphasis of someone who has had to repeat themselves a lot. "You both tend to live in the past a lot—wondering if there is stuff you could have done differently. And it makes sense with the kinds of lives we live that any mistakes we make end up a lot bigger than other people's—but that doesn't mean that we're any less entitled to make those mistakes. We're only human—yes, Cas, you just as much as the rest of us.

"So, it's good you're trying…It's good you're moving forward and evolving or whatever—and because you're learning from those missteps, maybe you could…I don't know…forgive yourself for some of them, too? I know I do…forgive everyone in this room for anything that you may have done to me in the past. Just like I hope you guys forgive me."

Dean waits a minute to see if his brother is done, which, mercifully, he is. "Gee, Sammy. I could hear the Hallmark music swelling for that particular chick flick moment."

"Make fun of me all you want, Jerk," Sam huffs, rolling his eyes. "You know I'm right."

"It was a beautiful sentiment, Sam," Cas inserts, diplomatically. "And I think Dean and I would both agree that you've done nothing that requires forgiveness."

"Speak for yourself…He did lock us in here!" Dean reminds the angel, only to have Cas check him by bumping his shoulder into his. "Fine…I guess I _have_ been refilling your container of frou-frou shampoo with the cheap stuff anytime you tell me you need a new bottle—so I guess we're even."

Sam's eyes widen to look even more like a Disney princess. "Dean!"

"That stuff costs like $9.39!" Dean throws his hands in the air, narrowly missing hitting Cas in return.

"Of someone else's money!"

"It's _hair,_ Sam," he insists. "Have you fuckin' even been able to tell a difference?"

"Yes…Yes, I have," Sam says, even at this very moment, running his fingers through the brown strands. Cas sighs and picks his book up off the table, figuring he can get another chapter in while the two of them work it out.


	5. Chapter 5

"Pass," Dean says, before his brother can speak, crossing his arms across his chest.

"But Dean…," Sam bites his lip, which is even more of a glaring warning than when his eyes went all soft looking at the phone screen a moment ago.

"You don't even know what the question is," Cas points out, squinting as if that can really help him read Dean any better.

"Doesn't matter. I know I won't like it."

"Well, considering you need my vote or Sam's to skip it, I still need to hear what the question is…Sam?" Cas prompts the youngest Winchester, ignoring Dean's scowl—and, subsequently, making him scowl more.

Sam clears his throat—and Dean wonders how anyone can _ever_ believe his brother is an FBI agent when he's so damn transparent all the time. "If you could change anything about the way you were raised…" His eyes flicker upward briefly, "what would it be?"

"I was never raised per se," Cas murmurs, thoughtfully, before Dean can even put a joke together involving Freud and couches. Which is a shame because it would have probably been a good one, even if the two dorks in the room wouldn't think so. "However, I wish that angels weren't taught that obedience was the same thing as righteousness. I wish that… we didn't spend so many millennia worshipping a God we didn't know and couldn't reach, all the while thinking that humanity is below us, when really people know so much more about love and loyalty than we do…"

"Stop," Dean interrupts, his voice as tight as the hands gripping his jeans-covered knees.

Cas cocks his head, but lets his sentence trail off.

"Stop saying 'we'," Dean clarifies. "You're not one of those dicks."

"It occurs to me that you insult angels by calling them 'dicks' _and_ by calling them 'dickless'…." A cough bursts out from Sam, causing Cas to look at him and then back at Dean again. "Shouldn't it just be one or the other?"

"That's not-" Dean starts, a flush burning in his cheeks.

But Sam has apparently decided he's not going to choke to death on his own surprise because he cuts his brother off—"Cas, you know how 'flammable' and 'inflammable' both mean that something can be set on fire? Insults sometimes work like that, where two opposite sounding words are meant to get the same point across."

"That makes little sense."

"And your insults do? Assbutt, anyone?" Dean reminds the man angel-shaped non-man next to him.

"But 'ass' and 'butt' mean the same thing," Cas insists. "It's not contradictory at all."

Dean scrubs his face with his hands. "OK, I have no idea how in the _hell_ we ended up on this conversation but—the point is that you are not one of _them_. When we rag on angels in this house, that doesn't include—you're one of _us._ Capiche?"

"Biologically speaking…" Cas begins, but even if he has often met Dean's glare with an unblinking own of his own, he seems to see something in the oldest Winchester's eyes this time that makes him change his mind. He ducks his head, giving a small but fond smile. "I capiche."

"Thank fuck!" Dean exclaims, but with a genuine grin at the end. "Now…can we please move this conversation along?"

"Dean…" his brother says, cautiously. "_You_ never answered the question."

Surprisingly, Cas starts shaking his head no. "You don't have to. I have been able to glean a reasonable amount of information about your childhood—and while there are many things _I_ wish that I could do about the circumstances you grew up in, you don't have to speak on them if you don't want to."

Certainly, Dean didn't want to a few minutes ago. But Cas was able to do this so easily—and there's something about the angel giving him an out—like he always gives him an out when it's time to talk about something hard—that makes him feel like he has to speak now. Of course, he really wishes he had a beer in his hand while he did.

"Don't know," he mumbles. "I'm not sure if I would change anything really."

Whatever Sam expected him to say, it was _definitely_ not that. "Are you kidding me, Dean? Running from monsters, from the cops, from whoever Dad owed money to…I know that you always put on a tough guy act about it…but you're really telling me you _liked_ that life? Day in, day out…you never thought about anything different?"

"Of _course_ I did, Sam," Dean scoffs, looking at the tiny potted plant Cas has sitting on the desk, practically the only thing he has to distinguish the room as his. There must be some combination of angel grace and luck keeping the thing alive because nothing green should stand a chance of surviving inside this windowless bunker with its caretaker gone for sometimes a month at a time. "We went through so much crap and I'm probably never gonna be alright because of it. I mean, you're tons better than me—but you're probably never gonna be alright either, Sammy. And it's not fair…And it certainly wasn't happy a lot of the time…

"But I can't say I would _change_ things either. Because if we were any more sane or healthy, I'm not sure we could have pulled off some of the shit we did. Dad raised us to be soldiers and that sucked—but would we be alive if he hadn't? Would the world?"

If Dean looks now, he can still see it in his brother's face—the longing for that other life, where he had a college degree and Jess to come home to…maybe even a few kids chasing after a dog in a suburban yard. And _that_ is one of their fundamental differences—Sam has always wanted to reach for something else, something better, while Dean…he just wants to cling tightly to what is right now. To the friends that are still alive and to the earth while it is still spinning. Heck, they even have their _mom_ back, distant as she is. So even if there _is_ the possibility of more out there for him, he doesn't think it can be much more than what he has right now. And he's not willing to bet the precious few poker chips in his possession trying to sweeten his own pot.

"I guess I see your point," Sam finally concedes, even though seeing and believing are two different things. Dean doesn't mind. No matter what Sam wants, the past isn't changing—and no matter how much Dean tries to stop it, the unknown future is still racing toward them—and that's just another thing the Winchesters will have to live with.


	6. Chapter 6

"That's it," Dean announces, hoisting himself off of the bed with hands on his knees. "I need a break—and food."

"Dean, we've only made it through…" Sam pauses to count, "Ten questions!"

"Yeah…and that's taken over _an hour_ already. S'not my fault you decided to start this crap right before dinner time."

His brother gives him a calculating look, "You're not getting out of this that easily."

"Dude…This isn't my attempt to break out of Shawshank. But I'm hungry—and if we take as long as we have been on the next twenty-six questions, I'm guessing you're gonna be feeling it soon too."

"There's also the risk that the questions will take exponentially longer over time," Cas says, rising also as Dean twists around at his waist to remove some of the pressure in his back. "After all, I'm guessing this exercise is designed to get more involved the further down the list you go."

_And Daddy issues was only #10…Wonderful, _Dean thinks, rolling his eyes while his back is turned to the others. "Look, we can answer questions over burgers just as well as we can trapped in here…I promise I'm not planning to pull one over on you as soon as the door is open."

"_Once_ the door is open," Sam corrects.

"Huh?"

"Saying you won't bolt 'as soon as the door is open' means you can still decide to drive off in the Impala after dinner or whatever. If you say you won't leave 'once the door is open', I'll let you out."

Cas seems to consider something for a moment. "I think you would have made a highly competent Crossroads demon, Sam."

"Uh…thank you," Sam responds, uncertainly—though when he turns to give his brother a _look_, Dean catches Cas's eyes instead and sees the mischief in them, forcing him to hide a snort of laughter. Apparently, the angel made jokes now—and not just accidental ones.

"I'm not bailing…," the oldest Winchester says, instead. "Now, stop being Gandalf and let us past."

Frowning, Sam turns back to the doorknob, adding a few deft strokes to the sigil there. With a click, the door opens, and Dean manhandles his way through first. Sam follows shortly after him but turns the opposite direction in the hallway. "I'm just gonna…call someone real quick. I'll be there for dinner."

Dean's pretty sure "someone" is pretty and dark-haired and is as quick with her comebacks as she is with a gun, so he shouts, "Say 'hi' to Eileen for me," over his shoulder, as Cas catches up to him. It feels good to be off his ass, to stretch his legs out. When he's in his Dead Guy robe, he wanders around the bunker slowly, savoring the idea of home the way he does the first sip of morning coffee. But right now, he moves like a man with a mission—and the angel matches him stride for stride.

"Wanna help me cook?" he asks as they arrive at the kitchen and he starts poking at the ground beef. Cas isn't allowed to get anywhere near the stove, but he'd kick Bobby Flay's ass at anything to do with a knife, that's for sure. Castiel nods, already dressed down in just his shirt and dress pants, but now he pushes his sleeves up too.

"Here," Dean says, passing him a few potatoes to cut into fries while he heats up two pans.

"You're taking this whole process well. Better than I expected," Cas says after a few minutes, already done with a pile of what looks like steak fries and starting on making a pile of curly as well. Maybe, Dean will change the spices on those—Cajun seasoning would be good, even if reminds him of Benny.

"Hasn't been _so_ bad so far," he shrugs, grabbing a bowl to dump the ground beef in. "And it has got me…you know…thinking about stuff…."

Cas pauses his efforts, momentarily, but quickly resumes them again, the steady rhythm of the knife work soothing to Dean on an instinctual level. "What kind of 'stuff?'"

"Like how we should get you some things…for your room."

Cas stops for real this time. "I…don't follow," he says, and Dean feels his face heat up everywhere he can feel the angel's gaze. Or, you know, it could just be from the heat coming off the stove.

"You said you'd rather be here than in Heaven, right? When you have the choice?" His voice is so quiet it almost can't be heard over the pop of the oil. He's like 99% sure that is what Cas said earlier, but that knowledge is like footsteps in the snow—it hasn't sunk all the way down yet.

"Yes," Cas responds without hesitation, but also with curiosity.

"Then, I want you to start thinking of the bunker as home, even when you're not here. I want…I want to be able to think of it as your home, too. And that means you should have…things…you know, a _presence_ here. Like a few extra outfits to hang in the closet for when we need to go casual on cases. We should have some of those ridiculous artisan mugs you like here in the kitchen so I can gripe about them like I do Sammy's shampoo. And we can get you more plants…to put in the library or whatever…" Dean's feeling really, really stupid now.

Even though he hasn't looked at Cas this entire time, he turns even more from him, jaw shutting with an audible click. He suddenly has the strong urge to tell the angel to leave, get out of the kitchen, maybe find Sam because wanting him to stay and asking him to go always seem to go hand-in-hand for him. But he can't—because he's under a freakin' truth spell—and that's not what he really means.

A hand comes up to his shoulder, squeezes it gentle. "That would make me…very happy," Cas whispers in the unnaturally long space between two beats of Dean's heart.

"Yeah?" Dean finally allows himself to meet blue eyes, which are smiling at him. "Well…OK, then," he breathes. And with that, he slides over some tomatoes and onions for Cas to chop up when the potatoes are done.


	7. Chapter 7

Sam ducks into the kitchen, sheepishly, ten minutes into dinner.

"And he gave _me_ crap about disappearing," Dean remarks around a mouthful of burger, giving the angel sitting next to him a slight nudge with his elbow.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm sorry," Sam replies, working on assembling his own sandwich from the pile of ingredients in the center of the table and picking up some extra lettuce and tomato to eat on the side as a makeshift salad. "Everything smells really good though."

Dean ignores the compliment. "Soooo…How's Eileen doing? Taught you to sign any dirty words yet?"

"She's doing well. Just finished up a banshee case in Washington."

"And…?"

Sam spears a French fry with a fork…which—really? "One or two," he mumbles.

Cas neatly sets his own food down. "If you'd like, Sam, I could assist you with learning ASL—including some of the…more colorful rejoinders you and Dean seem to prefer."

"Dude!" Dean removes his lips from his beer bottle just in time to avoid spraying the table. "You're an Angel of the Lord. And you wanna—what? Teach Sam how to curse and make innuendos? You can't even do that in _English_."

"Just because I don't say 'fuck' doesn't mean I'm not perfectly capable of doing it," Cas points out, as if he is talking about the weather. But even when Cas is talking about the weather, it is said in a soothing low growl that causes people's insides to vibrate. "Besides, I thought you'd taken pride in 'corrupting' me-" complete with air quotes—"over the years."

"I have—that's not—Sam, shut up!"

"I didn't even _say_ anything."

"Your face was saying something, Bitch!"

And, for sure, the corners of his little brother's mouth are twitching up at the corners. "It's a real nice offer, Cas, and I'll definitely take you up on it—but let's just stick to PG-13 vocab, OK?"

"Whatever you wish, Sam," he says, signing along with the words he is speaking. The angel's long fingers move gracefully and fluidly and it's hard to imagine either his or Sam's giant gun-calloused hands ever doing the same. Still, with Eileen becoming an increasingly large part of Sam's life…

"I should probably practice, too," he thinks, out loud. Sam looks surprised, but pleased. "After all, who else is gonna tell her how long you believed in the Easter Bunny-"

-oOo-

15 minutes later, Dean has had two more burgers and Sam is finally powering up his phone to resume asking questions. "Take four minutes and tell your partner your life story in as much detail as possible."

"OK, now this is stupid!" Dean throws his hands up in the air. "There is literally a book series about our lives—with way more details in it than necessary."

Cas cocks his head to the side. "Are you suggesting that I read the Winchester Gospels, Dean? I will admit, I haven't read more than a few passages, since I know they contain some of your inner thoughts and I figured you wouldn't appreciate the intrusion."

Dean snorts, noisily squirting ketchup onto his plate. "Well, you're right about that. 'Sides—you know most of the highlights anyway."

"You should feel free to read them if you want to, though," Sam says, ignoring his brother's glare. "I mean, yeah, we find them a bit freaky, but they're kinda your story too. You're in quite a few of them—and some of the books are even from your perspective."

"They…are?" Castiel croaks, looking distinctly more uncomfortable than he has the entire evening.

This is news to Dean, too. "And how do you know this, Samantha? Last time I checked, neither of us was part of a Supernatural book club."

"You really haven't been curious? I mean, we've spent so much time trying to get solid answers about our lives. And then we have these novels—literally written by God—that can tell us why and how some things went down the way they did."

"It's nothing that we don't already know. We _lived_ it," Dean insists, jabbing his index finger against the table.

Sam shakes his head. "Actually, that's not true. Remember how we were able to track down the Colt because Becky told us what happened in one of the books? There's lot of tidbits like that…Plus, you know, the stuff we don't tell each other."

"Like _what_?"

"Like _everything,_ Dean. What Hell was like, Purgatory, your year with Lisa. Did you know that when you called me the day that the last seal was broken that Zachariah replaced the voicemail message with a completely different one telling me—telling me you thought that I was a monster and that everything was my fault? And I lived with that…for a long time…_years._"

Dean's mouth opens and closes, wordlessly, emotions moving across his face like fast-moving clouds in a storm.

"I don't understand…," Cas interrupts, more composed than before but clearly still bothered. "I thought that Chuck's last book was about you jumping into the Pit to prevent the Apocalypse—but you are mentioning several events that came afterward."

Sam reaches up for the paper towel Dean had set out to use as napkin, tearing off a corner. "I mean, that was the last one that got published, yeah, but when we saw Chuck last year, I—I tried to ask him a few questions and He—he gave me copies of all the unpublished ones…up through when Dean got rid of the Mark of Cain."

Whatever else he was feeling, Dean settles on anger pretty quickly after that. "You're telling me that _God_ has been keeping a diary for us for the _last ten years_, and you've been reading it behind my back." His fists are clenched and he decides he doesn't want to wait for an answer. He pushes his chair violently away from the table, already halfway out of the kitchen.

"_Wait!_ Dean!" Sam calls after him. "I was _going_ to tell you…but then you were on a suicide bomb mission and I got kidnapped and-" But the oldest Winchester isn't listening.

Sammy's door is already open, the walls and desk looking nearly as bare as Cas's, which Dean also doesn't want to think about right now. However, the sparseness doesn't provide many hiding spaces. He takes one look at the bed before brushing the bedsheet aside where it brushes the floor. Sure enough, there is a clear plastic storage container holding what must be 150-200 paperback books. They are clearly in order, but Dean can tell by the way some of the spines are cracked which have been read the most.

_Lazarus Rising_ and _Lucifer Rising_ both look worn. There is also a section of books grouped together that has clearly seen a lot of attention: _The Third Man_, _Live Free or Twihard_, and _Appointment in Samarra_ among them. Dean would make fun of some of these god-awful names if he wasn't so pissed.

"Dean," Sam says, again, softly, standing in the doorway and obviously trying his best not to loom.

"We've lived out of each other's pockets our whole damn lives…I've got a right to keep some things private."

"You're right," Sam runs his fingers through his hair. "Of course, you're right. And I promise I haven't read them all, but there were just some things…I needed to understand."

For once, Dean doesn't care what Sam needs. He feels cornered by the stuff his brother might know about him—maybe even stuff he didn't know about himself—and why? Why, on top of the dying and getting reborn and the monsters and the PTSD should he have to worry about his every worst thought and desperate breakdown being found on a bookshelf next to frickin' James Patterson.

He doesn't know what else to do. He leaves. He escapes Sammy's sorry-but-not-sorry puppy-dog eyes by going to his own room. It's small enough that he only needs to pace five steps before he's at a wall and must turn around again. His back is to the door when he hears it creak open behind him.

Cas stands there, holding a six-pack of beer in one hand and waiting for permission.

"Yeah, OK," Dean says, flopping down onto his bed. The let the silence soothe them for a moment.

"I'm not particularly happy with this revelation, either," Castiel says at last. "Even though I can understand where Sam is coming from…It can be quite frustrating not knowing what you're really thinking sometimes …."

_Then he should have fuckin' asked_ is on the tip of his tongue, but his mind knows better. Sam did ask.

"That being said…I always assumed that part of the reason you don't like letting people in—the reason you hide things from even Sam—is because you're worried if he knew, he'd look at you differently. But as it turns out, he does know—and it's clear that you are the same person to him that you've always been."

"Yeah, well…" He's not in the mood to see the good in any of this right now. Instead, he gestures for a beer.

Cas gives it to him, then hesitates, his hand hovering over his pocket.

Slowly, he brings out a book, _The Man Who Would Be King _and places it in Dean's lap, back cover up so that Dean can read the description, "With his relationship to Crowley exposed to Sam, Dean, and Bobby, Castiel ponders the ongoing civil war with Raphael and the decisions that lead him to this point."

"I can remember some of my thoughts from this time," he murmurs, quietly, twisting the top off his own beer. "But it was a few brainwashings ago…so I can't say for sure what this book contains. Some of it will, undoubtedly, make you…uncomfortable," and if Dean didn't know that angels could control all of their bodily responses, he would have sworn that Cas was blushing. "But through this exercise with the questions—it's clear we've held on to some misunderstandings that…I've _enjoyed_ having things more in the open with you. So," he points to the book again. "I think you should read it."

Dean turns the book over. A stylized version of Cas sits on a park bench, looking up at the sky as if asking for a sign. He flips it open to a random page. "_…Castiel didn't understand why humans raked up leaves. It was part of their natural cycle for them to fall, to form a collage upon the grass, and Dean must know, when he gathered them up in piles, that the tree would only rain down more yellow and orange later. But that was humanity—and this human, especially—to know that something was a lost cause and to do it anyway…_"

He closes the book. "I don't want to do it like this," Dean croaks, his voice surprisingly dry considering he's finished almost half his bottle of beer. "If you want me to know how all that shit went down, _you_ can tell me. I promise…I promise I'll listen better than I did back then."

And even though it was littered with halting pauses and guilt-flashing eyes, that's exactly what Castiel did.


	8. Chapter 8

By the time Cas has caught Dean up on all the behind-the-scenes action between him and Rafael and him and Crowley, a half an hour or more had passed—and somehow, Dean can feel it getting darker outside, even stuck in a place without windows.

He sighs. "I get it, man," he says, scrubbing his eyes in sudden tiredness. "I mean, I hope, by this point, we've learned that when shit goes down, we gotta loop each other in. But I say that knowing I've unscrewed a few light bulbs trying to keep you and Sammy in the dark before. So…" He sets another empty beer bottle on his bedside table, next to two photos he has framed.

One is of him and his mom back when he's a little kid—just the hint of John's thumb hovering in the corner of the shot. The next is one Claire took. He and Sam are on opposite sides of the Impala, in the middle of laughing at some joke he can't remember. Meanwhile, Cas stands behind Dean's shoulder, only his eyes hinting at his own amusement.

And yet, in spite of how rarely the angel lets emotions cross his face, he'd sunk—and then unsunk—the Titanic for them, apparently. Dude was definitely one for big gestures—he had to give him that. It makes Dean think that if he was the 35-year old accountant he looked like, he would have been the kind of person to propose over the big screen at a baseball game or by renting an airplane or some shit.

"So, is that all of it?" Dean asks, reclining more naturally against his pillow.

"No," Cas states, simply. "But maybe the rest can be for later…?"

Dean snorts, "Suits me."

"I'm guessing we're reached a hiatus on the questions for today, then." The angel sets _The Man Who Would Be King_ next to Dean's photos, a clear invitation to still read it if he wants to.

Dean breathes through his teeth. "I'm not ready to talk to Sam right now. I'll just get pissed again."

"Fair enough. Do you want me to…?" Cas tilts his head in the direction of the door.

"No! Stay." He clears his throat. "And we could even, you know, keep going with the questions…if you wanted. S'posed to be about the two of us anyway."

Cas looks back at the door again. "Alright." He sits on the edge of the bed and Dean almost imagines him saying, "I'll watch over you."

"Let me just…" He waves his phone in explanation, trying to find the same site Sam was on, and suddenly, Dean's wondering if this was such a good idea after all. Without the third wheel, the whole thing feels more—intimate?—now. Which is ridiculous. If Dean can't be alone in a room with his best friend without making it weird, then he's even more messed up than he realized.

"If you could wake up tomorrow having gained any one quality or ability, what would it be?" Cas reads once he loads the page.

"It's gotta be flying for you, right?"

Cas smiles, sadly. "Yes…I suppose it's selfish of me when I'm the reason so many angels lost their wings—but I miss the feeling. It was also…reassuring…knowing I could be there at a moment's notice if you needed me. You?"

"Not sure. Any time Sammy or I have suddenly gained powers, it's not been the best thing, you know? I mean, a forcefield wouldn't be bad or I could be that Nicholas Cage character from _Next_, who could see how the future was affected by the choices he made. But, for the most part, I like kicking supernatural ass as a regular old human—makes the demons feel extra shitty about themselves."

Cas hums in agreement. "You do often use being underestimated to your advantage."

Dean snorts. "Right back at you, Bud. Don't think I fall for that 'what a strange human custom you have there' thing you do _every_ time."

"For that matter," he says, remembering something that kind of bugs him. "You totally know when someone's checking you out. But they try to tell you you're hot or whatever and suddenly, you're all, 'My temperature is perfectly regulated at the moment.' What gives?"

"Dean…" Cas begins, clearly thinking over his every word carefully. "I know that setting me up with strange women is…important to you for some reason. But it's just not something that I'm interested in."

The oldest Winchester shifts around slightly. "So, what…? One, uh, bad experience with that reaper chick and you never want to get laid again?" he asks, glancing across the room at his dresser before finding his eyes inexplicably drawn back to the angel who is, of course, staring. Because he isn't a human who was raised to feel weird about these kinds of conversations. And Dean stares back, because he sometimes can't help it, trying to read whatever else the angel isn't saying—if there even _is_ anything else. "Or do I have your type wrong? You, uh, interested in dudes?"

"I'm not opposed to physical intimacy…As I said, that was…quite pleasant. I suppose that would be the same with either gender. I have just realized that it's something I only want if there is an emotional connection...a bond…first."

OK, OK, he'll process all of _that_ later. Now is not the time to pause. "I get it, man," he says, scratching the back of his neck. "About wanting it to mean something, that is. I haven't really been—uh, you know—getting it as much lately. Girls still seem interested and sometimes, you need to just let off a little steam, but…I don't know. Lying about my name, my job, everything—didn't used to mind it so much. But now all the effort of charming someone doesn't seem worth it since it's not even…real." And whether he wants to or not, he's definitely going to have to talk to Sammy in order to get this truth spell reversed. Because there's no way he can keep running his mouth like this. And yet, Cas's look of approval—of almost-hope—catches him off-guard.

"I'm glad to hear you say that, Dean."

"Why? 'Cause being a man-whore offends your angelic sensibilities?"

"I will remind you, you've met Balthazar. And Gabriel. I just think you deserve better." Dean's pretty sure if he ever found someone he wanted, he wouldn't deserve them, but manages not to bring it up.

Seemingly satisfied with the silence, Cas turns back to his phone. "If a crystal ball could tell you the truth about yourself, your life, the future or anything else, what would you want to know?"

This one, at least, is pretty easy to answer. "Pe-warning of the next apocalypse would come in handy," he sighs, thunking his head against the headboard. "Maybe we could nip it in the bud this time."

"I think…I think I would like to know if the good I've done has outweighed the bad," Cas murmurs, stroking the length of his tie.

Dean frowns—because he's heard Cas say "I'm afraid I might kill myself" before in that same tone of voice—and he thought, _hoped_ they were long past that. "I know you don't want to think about it as a numbers game, Cas. But we're saved the world together. _Multiple_ times. That's billions of people still alive and breathing because of what you've done. Including me," he points out, leaning forward. "And even without you saving my skin more times than I can count—which you _have_—my life is better for having you in it."

"I'm gonna be honest. There have been times I have been pissed at you—really, really pissed. But even when I hated you the most, I never _hated_ you. In the kind of life Sam and I live, you don't make many friends. And those you do, you tend to lose eventually. But as much crap as I give you for leaving, you never stay gone. And thank Chuck, too, because I feel like I would do some pretty stupid stuff if I lost you for real."

Dean feels it again—an anxiety and tension he didn't feel a second ago. But once again, Cas smiles at him, like he's just made his day and the sudden tight knot in his stomach loosens slightly. "Thank you, Dean. I've been around since the beginning of existence and while I spent a lot of it fairly content, I can't say much of it was happy. _But_…" he huffs out a breath. "The times that it has been—they've been because of you."

"Way to put pressure on a guy."

Cas rolls his eyes. "As you've pointed out, we've had the fate of the world in our hands a few times. I think you can handle simply being yourself."

Dean really hopes so.


	9. Chapter 9

"Make three true "we" statements each. For instance, 'We are both in this room feeling…'"

"…like this is a stupid question," Dean grumbles, looking over Cas's shoulder at the phone to make sure he read it right. "I mean, it's written even more awkwardly than the stuff that comes outta _your_ mouth sometimes."

"Your insults aside, I agree that this seems a strange thing to ask us. I would never presume to know what you are feeling, Dean."

Probably smart of him. Dean doesn't even know what he's feeling half of the time—besides hungry and Cas probably wouldn't count that as an emotion. "So…what? Skip it?" he asks.

"I don't know what I could say. But, so far, each of these questions has served a purpose—even the unlikely ones. It makes me disinclined to just…give up."

Cas is giving the screen the same look he gives the coffee maker—like he knows it's important, but doesn't quite understand why…the same look Dean can't help but smile at from behind Cas's back. "How about this? We'll move past this one for now, but we won't write it off. Maybe something will come to us or we can circle around at the end."

Castiel takes a moment to consider this, before nodding. "Agreed."

"So, what's next?"

"What is the greatest accomplishment of your life?" The angel's frown deepens. "I don't know if I like this question either. I'm not sure I have any traditional accomplishments."

"Are you kidding?! Cas, you rebelled against _Heaven_—against everything you'd ever been told to believe in."

"And while I don't regret it, it doesn't make me a 'good' angel,"—complete with air quotes. "Quite the opposite, in fact."

"Dude," Dean says, raising his arm to put a hand on Cas's shoulder. "I've been raised to fight the things that go bump in the night since I was _four._ Got grazed by my first vamp when I was fourteen. And, yet, I always knew that Sam was the brave one—because he was the one who could stand up to Dad. Tell him when what he was saying was bullshit."

"And when Dad died, he left me with—what would he have called it? the _responsibility_—of killing my own brother someday. Of course, I was never gonna. But I think part of me was scared that somehow, someway, even if it was against my own will, I would—just because I'd never _not_ done what John Winchester said before." His fingers squeeze a little bit, unconsciously digging themselves into Cas's shirt further, but the angel doesn't seem to notice.

"Anyway, my point is that some people might tell Sam that getting into Stanford was an accomplishment. But the kid was so smart, that didn't take all that much. No, his accomplishment was going in spite of Dad yelling at him not to—in spite of me beggin' him for the same thing. And you, Cas, you're made of the same stuff. You went against orders—against the entire _natural order_. It's pretty damn impressive."

When Cas turns his head to look at Dean more fully, it causes his thumb to brush against the surprisingly soft skin of Cas's neck and he retracts his hand quickly.

"You know, I admire Sam's bravery immensely," Cas begins slowly, looking down at the hand Dean had removed and laid to rest on the bedspread next to his—about six inches of space between the two. "He is…one of the strongest and kindest humans that I think this world has ever known. But I think the reason that he is—well, everything he is—is because he is _your_ greatest accomplishment."

Dean feels startled. He hadn't even begun to think of an answer for himself yet—but Cas had instantly known the one thing he would let himself feel proud of.

"For you to be the Righteous Man, you couldn't just die—you had to sell your soul. And the angels and demons, they knew you would. For Sam. Because you aren't just his brother—you raised him. You…took the punishments John Winchester would have given Sam instead…. Sam is brave…in part because you gave him less to fear."

He remembers now—had never really forgotten—getting drunk one night and telling Cas that John used to hit him sometimes. Not that it was a big deal. Everyone in this family beat up on everyone else from time to time—he'd gotten bruises from Sammy too. And yet, even as he thinks it, he knows that it should be different with your kid.

"I just did what I had to do," he mutters, trying to shrug off the attention—and feeling relieved that Sam isn't here. Both because his brother shouldn't have to listen to this conversation and because he doesn't think they would have talked this honestly about it—truth spell or not—with him around.

"Yes," Cas agrees, with a shrug. "But what you've had to do is more than Chuck should expect out of anyone."

-oOo-

"What do you value most in a friendship?" Cas's voice startles Dean out of the moment they'd been having.

"What?"

"It's the next question."

"Oh, right." Dean's eyes bounce across the room as if he's going to find the answer on the walls somewhere, instead of right in front of him.

"I mean, friends are there for each other. No matter what."

Cas nods. However, he also shifts awkwardly on the bed—as if he is suddenly uncomfortable in the dress pants he wears every damn day. Dean feels instantly suspicious.

"What's up, Sunshine? Didn't think I was sharing a controversial opinion there."

"No, of course, I agree with you. It's just…We were discussing only a few moments ago one of the times I acted counter to you and Sam. I know…you've forgiven me and, for that, I'm very grateful, but that's—it's not in your personality to forgive people often. And I guess I'm just wondering…why?"

Dean's actually thought about this one a lot—on long, silent drives with Sam, hundreds of miles away from where Cas was staying in a mental hospital. Out in the woods of Purgatory, where every distraction could possibly get you killed by a Leviathan. In hotel rooms where he imagined he saw Cas's face outside the room. "You went behind our backs, yeah. But that didn't mean you didn't _have_ our backs…. You were trying to stop the Apocalypse from happening all over again—stop us from becoming vessels. You were trying to do the right thing."

"But I hadn't properly explained all that before this evening—and you still forgave me years ago."

"You didn't explain. But I knew. Sorta. I knew that you however much crazy was rolling around in your brain at the time that you weren't trying to hurt us. I mean, Man, you were _God_. You could have wiped us off the face of the planet Earth pretty easily if you tried. You didn't try. You let us go back to Bobby's, fix the Impala, live."

Dean leans forward, the pressure to convince Cas not unlike the need he sometimes feels to convince himself—that he did his best, that his intentions were good. "When you rebelled the first time—or maybe it was the second, you said that you did it for—for me, right?" he says, stumbling over the last few words. "I mean, I know you had other reasons, too, but-"

"You were a…highly contributing factor."

"Yes, right," Dean repeats, feeling the tips of his ears going pink. "And when Hannah wanted to shove an angel blade through me and grill me like a kabob, you picked me over your army."

Cas's forehead furrows. "Of course I—"

"Whether it's been Metatron or Ishim or—well, anybody, everybody—you've picked me." Dean pauses, "I mean, us. You've picked us," Cas raises an appraising eyebrow, but he quickly steamrolls on. "So, as far as I'm concerned, that's a pretty solid track record."

"I suppose I see your point."

"So, what about you, Cas? What do _you_ value in a friendship?"

"I think…this," he shrugs, simply, gesturing between the two of them. "Having someone who knows about the mistakes I've made—pushes me to be better than them—but who still accepts them as parts of me. Someone who helps me find other sides of myself that maybe I like more."

Dean holds his breath for a second before letting it out, not knowing what to say. He glances down at the bed and their not-touching hands—only four inches apart. Closer than they were before.


	10. Chapter 10

"What is one of your most treasured memories?" Cas reads. "Well, I suppose I know the answer to this one. You've described the Heaven you went to when you were searching for Joshua."

Dean remembers that, of course. Shooting off illegal fireworks with Sammy. Having his mother make him lunch and offer him a hug. Moments he knew he would carry with him forever. But even though they still carry the weight of something warm and important, they don't mean the same thing to him that they once did.

"I don't know, Man. I think maybe they've changed…or I guess I did. How real were those memories anyway? That day with Mom in the kitchen—is that what really happened or is that just what I pictured, looking back on it? Just like I used to think her meatloaf was homemade and not from the Piggly Wiggly?"

Cas looks at him with sympathy. "Your own perceptions of events _can_ affect what you see in Heaven, yes. After all, it is the unfortunate state of things that some people are on Earth for too short a time—or know too much suffering—to want to linger on those memories when they die. Instead, they might spend their afterlife recalling the times they lived vicariously through characters they loved in books or TV. Or they might recall a happy dream they once had."

Dean nods. Angels lying ain't new, after all. "Well, whatever my Heaven is, you'd gotta be in at least some of it. You and Sammy. Charlie, too," he says, matter-of-factly. "But besides that, I don't know. Seems like the happiest moments you don't really think about at the time—because you're so busy enjoying them. It's the bad stuff that comes in all sudden and life-changing."

A thought occurs to him for the first time. "Hey, Cas?"

"Yes," the angel says, striped tie swinging as he raises his head.

"What _does_ happen when Sam and I croak?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean…even supposing we make it to 90 without some demon or vampire ganking our asses, we'll die someday—and Billie already promised to throw us in the Empty when we do—so I guess I'm just wondering what you're gonna do. Go back Upstairs and try to make up with your brothers and sisters? Find some other hopeless hunters and be their guardian angel?" He's just saying the first things that come to the top of his head, but he hates them as soon as the words hit the air—hates the bitter taste they leave on his mouth and the churning they cause in his gut.

"It's not something I like to think about."

"But you have." It's not a question.

"I have. But I haven't come up with an answer. I don't think it's something I can know for sure until it happens. My life turned into something completely different from the moment I was assigned to rescue the soul named Dean Winchester from Hell. Chuck brought me back—more times than I can count—to be here for _you._ I honestly don't know who I'll become when you're gone and there's nothing that can bring you back."

"Your life ain't all about me, Man," Dean says, both touched and uncomfortable with that idea.

"Isn't yours all about your family?"

Well, he couldn't argue with that.

He expects Cas to move on to the next part of the questionnaire then—but he doesn't. Just looks down at the floor as if he really isn't seeing it.

"Cas? What's up?... Don't say the ceiling."

"The sky. Birds. Planes."

"Congrats, you've finally passed Sarcasm 101."

"It must be my excellent teacher," Cas smiles. It's a sad smile, but he does it so rarely that Dean is happy to see it anyway. "I've just wondered sometimes if I might…if I might try being human again. In which case, I wouldn't have to worry about how to spend eternity."

"Really?" Dean sits up in surprise, his adrenaline pumping in a way it only usually does if he's running from something big and scary. "The last time…wasn't really a walk in the park for you." _And not only did I not help, I practically kicked you while you were down._

"You weren't at your best," Cas admits and only then does Dean realize he said the last part out loud.

"You're still angry at me for that, aren't you?" he asks, hanging his head slightly, having always suspected the answer and been too scared to ask.

"Yes," Cas agrees, blunt as ever—didn't even need a truth spell for that one. "But I also know you're mad at yourself and that helps me let it go most of the time."

"So why? Why go through all that again? The eating, the sleeping, the shitting. Getting colds. Getting paper cuts. Aging."

"Well, I'm hoping that if I ever _did_ decide to give up my grace, I wouldn't have to go through it _all_ again." He looks at Dean—hope and hesitation warring within those midnight blue eyes.

"What do you-" Suddenly, he gets it, and it stings—bright and sharp, like alcohol on bruised knuckles. "I mean, of course, you'd stay here, Man. And we'd help you. If you wanted to be a hunter, we'll teach you how to pick a lock and shoot a gun. And if you didn't…You just wanted to make a garden out back or knit hats for the local hospital, then we'd help with that, too."

Cas makes no other movement besides nodding, but Dean can feel something inside Cas shift, like puzzle pieces rearranging into a new shape. _"Thank you."_

"Why?" Dean repeats.

"I gave up a lot for humanity already—because—because I love it. I love what you create, I love what you try to accomplish, how deeply you feel—everything. And it wasn't all bad before. Peanut butter sandwiches. Hot showers. I was still awkward around others—but I felt more…connected to them. Like I finally understood what they go through."

"Right now, I'm not really anything, Dean," Cas continues, somewhat pleadingly. "Too human to be an angel. Too angel to be a human. And if I never want to go back to the Host, maybe the only way forward for me is to…plant my feet firmly in one camp. Join the club, so to speak."

_Except I used to belong to a much better club,_ Dean hears in his head, an echo of a future that never came to be.

"Did I ever tell you about the future Zachariah sent me to all those years ago?" Dean barely pauses before answering himself. "'Course I didn't. Never told Sam much of anything about it either." He scooches forward in order to fully lean back, folding his hands over his chest, and closing his eyes—like he's telling a bedtime story but also like he's trying to fall asleep. Those few days shouldn't have stuck with Dean like they did—considering his memory is crap, considering none of it came true. But they did. They have. Every word Lucifer said with his brother's mouth. Every look Cas gave him.

"You were human there. It wasn't your choice. But it was something you regretted. You threw orgies and were high all the time, just trying to forget. I think…you resented future me, too, for letting that happen to you—or maybe just for being a dick. 'Cause he was. You said, 'I like past Dean' when I smarted off to him and I knew that you were trying to twist the knife in him a little bit—and as cold as he was, he felt that. A little. I could tell."

Dean opens his eyes again, the light of the bedside lamp casting Cas's shadow over him on the bed, which he could sort of imagine was his wings. "I'm not saying to stay an angel if that's not what you want to do. I'm just saying that if you do give up your mojo and break your foot, you might not be able to walk for two months—and you have to ask yourself if all that stuff that you love about humanity will be enough to make up for it."

Cas gives Dean one of those stares that is like a one-way mirror, like he's taking in everything about him, meanwhile, Dean can't read anything back. "I don't know," he says, finally, tilting his head to the side, still appraising the hunter. "But I have faith that it could be."


	11. Chapter 11

"So, what about you, Cas? Most treasured memory?"

"The same as you, I suppose. The little things. Driving around in the Impala, listening to you and Sam argue about what's on the radio. Watching movies together. I used to enjoy visiting your dreams—the peaceful ones, like fishing by the lake. Of course, I understand now that that was an invasion of privacy."

Dean feels himself flushing, slightly. "I'm just glad you didn't end up in any of my, uh, weirder dreams."

He was expecting a head tilt, followed by a confused question, but Cas wouldn't meet his eyes and was rubbing the back of his neck, nervously.

"Cas? You _didn't_ walk in on any of my sex dreams, did you?

"It was…unintentional. And I promise I left quickly."

"Dude, I'm…naked in those dreams."

For some reason, that seemed to ease Cas's embarrassment, rather than add to it. "Dean, I rebuilt your body from molecules. I am intimately aware of what you look like—or at least what you looked like eight years ago."

"You…you…"

"I don't see why this should make you uncomfortable, Dean. The human body is natural. And from societal aesthetic standards, you are-"

"Do _not_ finish that sentence."

Cas continues to look at him as if he is being unreasonable but did, in fact, shut up. God, he is never going to be able to properly enjoy alone time in the shower again now that he has _that_ tidbit of information. And yet, his sex drive is apparently very confused at the moment because he feels a slight simmering down below.

"Let's, uh, take a break," he suggests, wishing the matter was as simple as getting out of bed, but Cas is still sitting on the edge of it, meaning he would have to maneuver his body around him. "I think I need to use the restroom."

"Dean," Cays says, earnestly. "I'm sorry if I made things awkward. But, after everything we've shared this evening, I—I would be upset if we started avoiding each other again."

Dean doesn't want that either—and once again, the thought refuses to stay in his head, but comes naturally to his lips. "I—need a breather, yes—but I promise I'm not bailing. Just give me a few minutes of human time, OK?" Dean requests.

Cas nods, scooting to the side to grant him an easier exit. "And you want me to…to wait here then?"

"I mean, stretch your legs if you want to, but we'll meet back here in a few."

Opening the door into the hallway, Dean instantly feels cooler, like he can breathe a little easier. He does really need to go to the restroom, so he heads in that direction. His thoughts are still a little preoccupied though, which is why it takes him a moment to realize that he's not alone. Sam is brushing his teeth over one of the sinks, spitting quickly when he sees him.

"I'm sorry," he gets out quickly, as if expecting Dean to stop him if he didn't act quickly enough. Which, you know, probably fair.

Dean expects his anger to flash hot again. After all, it's only been a few hours—and his grudges can last from one Apocalypse to the next when he's really motivated—but he finds himself weirdly calm.

"It's fine, Sammy," he says, before instantly correcting himself. "Well, no, it's not fine. But we've definitely kept worse secrets from each-other and I just don't feel like wasting time being angry at you when I know I'll get over it eventually."

"Wow," Sam blinks, toothbrush still raised almost like a weapon near his face. "That is…er…not at all what I was expecting you to say."

"We're the stars of a book series. I think it's called character development or some shit."

"True," Sam says, with a tight smile, turning to put his stuff away in the mirrored cabinet above the sink. Dean waits with his back to the wall, preferring to do his business without an audience. However, when Sam turns back around, he can sense him stalling. _For Chuck's sake, I came in here to clear my head about Cas, not to deal with brother issues._ But watching Sam hesitate like this is giving him second-hand embarrassment.

"Spit it out," he orders, deciding that even if he has had an overload of talking about his emotions for today that getting everything in the open might mean that he can avoid feelings altogether tomorrow.

"Are you…planning on reading the books now?" Sam asks, raising his eyebrows in a way that brings out the lines on his forehead.

Dean answers Sam's question with another question. "Is there something you think I should know?"

"Kinda? Maybe?"

"Sam, I've had a long day. Can you just say what you frickin' mean?"

The youngest Winchester takes a deep breath. "When we were planning for me to jump into the Pit, I asked you to stay with Lisa because I thought, deep down, that was what you wanted. What would make you happy. I think you thought that too. But reading about that time, I can tell you weren't."

"Course not, Sammy. You were _dead._"

"Besides that. I mean, don't get me wrong. I appreciate how much you mourned me, Dean, and I'm really sorry that you had to go through that. But there were other things you were missing that-She and Ben were the apple pie life, for sure. But maybe you needed to look for a chocolate crème pie life instead. Maybe you still do."

"Are you high or something?" Dean asks, genuinely confused and also vaguely aware that this conversation is taking a while and Cas is probably going to think he bolted after all. _Just great…_

"OK, a metaphor was probably not the way to go here. I just…if I leave out some of the books for you and sticky note a few pages, will you read them?"

Dean wants to say 'no'—wants to avoid whatever revelations Sam thinks that The Winchester Gospels have in store for him. But he also doesn't like knowing where his brother's head is at—especially in regards to him. "Put them outside my door and I'll think about it," he finally goes with. "Now, will you leave me alone to piss?"

Sam gives one stuttered nod and exits the room in three giant-sized strides.

Alone at last, Dean vaguely realizes he could have asked Sam to join him and Cas reading the questions again. That might have been a perfect solution to the weird knot in his gut when he thinks about going back to his room and the angel perched on the end of his bed who apparently knows exactly what he looks like under three layers of plaid. But as awkward as that idea makes him feel, he has to admit he feels weirder about Sam being there now—when he and Cas have created such a safe space just the two of them.

With that, he finishes up his business and heads back, determined to act completely normal.


	12. Chapter 12

"Well, here's a fun one to start back up with," Dean reads, having decided to ask the questions for a little bit. He figures it will give him something to do besides lay there and look at Cas weird. "What is your most terrible memory? I feel like there are so many options."

"You know what you're picking?" he asks Cas, as if they are at a restaurant trying to decide who should order first.

Cas nods, but Dean can see the tension in every line of his body.

"Hey. I figure I know about most of the shit you've been through, so you can skip it if you want."

"You…you don't know about this one. Or at least not the full story."

Well, _that_ intrigues Dean, but he feels like he can't just ask Cas to spill when he already gave him a pass.

"I—back when Naomi was brainwashing me," Cas begins, shoulders hunched. "She had to have some way of making sure that I was—I guess 'finished' is the best word. That I was completely under her control, so she—" He looks up from his hands to watch Dean carefully. "She created these doppelgangers of you…and she had me practice killing them—over and over—'til I did it without questioning."

Dean doesn't know what to say to that, so he jokes, reflexively. "Well, Gabriel killed me over a hundred times once. Maybe you two should have started a club."

"I did it over a _thousand_ times, Dean."

"Wow," Dean says and Cas winces. "Angels really have a kink for telling you to kill me, don't they?"

"Dean, this is serious."

"I _am_ being serious. It's really starting to seem like a fetish. Which sucks for them, because you never actually go through with it." No one is more surprised than Dean when he lifts Cas' hand where it lays on the bed and settles it over his own heart—but he wants to remind Cas that he's real—and whatever messed up thing he's picturing in his head is _not_.

"Don't beat yourself up about it, Cas. You've brought me _back_ from the dead a couple of times and saved my life more than a thousand easy. It seems to me that all those dick bags have done is prove that you aren't capable of hurting me."

He doesn't even wait for a response before steamrolling into his next thought. "I still have nightmares about the Mark of Cain, you know? And if I had to pick my most terrible memory, it's those dreams—the ones where I can hear my own voice screaming in the back of my head, but I still kill you anyway. Where I still kill Sam. When I wake up, I should feel relieved—and I am. Because I know you two are OK. But I don't—don't even want the _thought_ in my brain and the fact that I can picture it _so_ clearly…."

When he started talking, he'd mostly been thinking about comforting Cas, but now, it's all coming back—metal bright and blood bitter. "I came close that day in the library, Cas," he admits, the volume on his voice turned way down.

"You didn't though."

"I could've."

Cas presses his hand even more firmly against his heart and Dean closes his eyes to feel it more clearly.

"Why are we even talking about this?" Dean croaks a minute later, feeling the echo of his confession still in the air. "I mean, the other questions have served a purpose—and I guess this one would too, if we were normal people. But we're not. And nothing I say or you say is going to make me feel better about how things went down. And you apparently haven't let go of not-killing me four years ago, so I don't see how this is benefiting you either."

"It's not exactly helping, no, but it's not _not_ helping," Cas murmurs back. "And the truth is, I don't really _want_ to feel better about what almost happened. Next time someone tries to use me against you, I'll remember how much the _idea_ of losing you hurts me and I'll be that much more able to resist them."

"What? Are you the angel of Thursdays, beekeeping, and the most morbid silver linings ever?"

Cas huffs, giving the impression of someone crossing their arms without actually doing it. "I was _supposed_ to be the angel of temperance, as well," he states, solemnly—but he seems pleased with the involuntary smile that brings to Dean's face.

"I'll remind you of that the next time you drink a liquor store."

"I'm not quite as powerful as I used to be. Probably would only take half a liquor store now."

"What a lightweight," Dean jokes—realizing, ironically, that he does feel a bit lighter himself. "Seriously, though," he continues. "_Wanting_ to feel bad about yourself forever—sounds dangerously Winchester to me."

Cas rolls his eyes. "What did you expect, Dean? Literally _everything_ I know about human emotions, I learned from you and Sam."

Dean opens his mouth. Closes it again. And then before he knows it, a laugh rises to the surface, catching him off guard—and if it's still got a slightly sad aftertaste, he's so used to it, he doesn't notice. "Oh my god, man. You're right. You're absolutely right. You really had no chance."

/

Once Dean finally calms down, they try to get through the next set of questions quickly. "How do you feel about your relationship with your mother?"

Cas has no answer for that, of course, and Dean admits that Mary is essentially a stranger who he wants to get to know a lot more than she seems to want to know him—and pretty much leaves it at that.

"How close and warm is your family? Do you feel your childhood was happier than most other people's?" and a second question about the meaning of friendship similarly get brushed off in a sentence or less.

Dean starts to feel sleepiness loosen his muscles, even make his mouth water a little bit, but he refuses to give into it. "Alternate-" yawn—"sharing something you consider"—yawn—"a positive characteristic of your partner. Share a total of five items."

"Dean," Cas says to him, exasperated.

Dean turns half-lidded eyes to him. "You gonna tell me how awesome I am Cas?"

"While you are 'awesome', you are also human. You need sleep—more than four hours. When I was human, I couldn't stand less than six."

"Did you snore?"

"Did I…?"

"Snore? You know-" and Dean proceeds to mimic the noise he means. He figures he's getting a little sleep-drunk, which is why he has no control over his mouth, but now that his brain has thought of it, he's really curious.

Cas, meanwhile, looks somewhere between bewildered and amused. "I don't know how I would know the answer to that question. It's not like I can ask anyone. _You_ definitely snore sometimes," he adds, prying the phone out of Dean's hands with gentle fingers.

He sets it on the desk. "We can finish questions tomorrow," he declares, standing up and loosening his tie so that it falls more like it used to.

"Right…sure," Dean agrees, immediately, but the warmth and comfort of a few moments before is leaving him and he suddenly feels more awake than he has in the last half hour. "Hand me my laptop before you go, would ya?" he requests, gesturing to where it lays beside his phone.

Cas doesn't really glare at him, but there's judgment there, none-the-less.

"You're not going to go to sleep?"

"I will—eventually. I'm just gonna watch some TV first."

Cas neither says anything nor moves, just waits.

"Dude, I haven't had a curfew since I was four. I'm not going to let you start giving me one."

"Why don't you want to go to sleep?"

Dean doesn't want to answer. He doesn't _have_ to answer. Except some part of his mind thinks he does. "You know how when you've had a sucky day, people tell you that a good night's sleep will help everything seem better in the morning?"

Cas hesitates, but nods. "Well, sometimes if you've had an OK day, you go to sleep and the next day everything goes to hell." He knows it's irrational to think that he's not allowed too many good days in a row before the next end-of-the-world event comes. Even if he is, tomorrow's creeping up regardless—but sometimes, he just…wants to hold on to today.

Cas hesitates, but eventually grabs the laptop and hands it over to Dean and then starts heading for the door.

"What do you do at night anyway?" Dean's voice stops the angel with his hand on the knob.

Cas turns back to him, shrugging. "I read, I watch things, I patrol."

"Patrol?" Dean says, with raised eyebrows. "Why does that sound like a new code word for 'watch over you'?"

"It's not," Cas starts, but then seems compelled to add, "…quite the same thing. I just wander the halls a few times a night to make sure there aren't…any threats." He looks increasingly embarrassed the more he talks. "I promise I haven't actually watched you sleep since…" The angel abruptly stops talking.

"Since when, Cas?"

"We all inhabit the same motel rooms on hunts, Dean," Cas insists. "I would have to exert an extreme amount of effort to not see you sleeping _sometimes… And_ you just asked if I snored in my sleep as a human, so it's not like you don't have similar…inclinations."

Dean dismisses any feelings of weirdness over that. "We weren't exactly _friends_ yet when you did that. It's not like I'd mind it that much now."

"You-" Dean is surprised by how wide Cas's eyes get.

"Don't look _that_ excited about it or it's going to go back to feeling creepy."

Cas mutters something under his breath that Dean guesses is a string of curse words in Enochian. "Good night, Dean," he grumbles, exasperated, turning to go one more time.

"Hey, Cas?"

"_Yes,_ Dean?" Wow, he might really be pushing his luck tonight.

"I was gonna watch some anime if you wanted to translate the Japanese for me. Or I can just use the subtitles, you know," he offers, nonchalantly.

The angel turns back to him and there's a hint of a smile there somewhere that makes his shoulders relax. "Yes. I'd like that."


	13. Chapter 13

Dean wakes up feeling fine. Actually, you know, he feels _good_. He checks his phone and sees that it's about 9 AM, which means he got six or so hours of sleep after drifting off mid-episode. He doesn't even remember any nightmares so, yeah, he's great.

Grabbing a towel and some clean clothes from his dresser, he's about to head down to the shower room, when—"Ow! What the-" He picks up the box that caused him to stub his toe. He recognizes the art style on the book covers immediately, even if he's pretty sure he hasn't seen these particular ones before. So, these are Sam's little present.

_I can't possibly deal with this crap before coffee,_ he decides, dropping them just inside his door.

He doesn't run into anyone in the hallway leading to the bathrooms—and that's also good. _Better_ than having to deal with something like his awkward run-in with Sammy last night. And if there is a slight unease in the back of his mind, he ignores it to focus on the awesome water pressure.

It's as he's leaving the bathroom that he stumbles across Sam, wearing a tank top and sweat—both of which are kinda gross. "Dean," he says, jogging in place, looking over him, anxiously. "How are you doing?"

Dean's mouth opens to form the word 'good' automatically, but when he realizes he's going to say something different instead, he quickly changes tactics. "I'm—Have you seen Cas?"

"Not since I dropped off those books this morning."

"So he was-" Dean asks, scrubbing the back of his head.

Sam raises both eyebrows. "_You're_ asking _me_ if Cas stayed over?"

"Dude," Dean protests. "Why are you making it sound like that? We were just… watching TV. But before that, we talked about, you know—the whole 'watching over me' thing and how I shouldn't have made it into such a big deal before. But then I woke up and he wasn't there so-" _Shut up, shut up, shut up,_ he tells himself.

Cas had said he was going to start thinking of the bunker as home from now on—had seemed to like spending so much time with Dean yesterday—and just because he hadn't seen him this morning didn't mean he was having second thoughts about either of those things. And, _oh my god,_ when did he suddenly become a teenage girl?

"Sam," he growls. "What else was in that truth powder you blew into our faces?"

"Uh…nothing?"

Dean shakes his head, "Come on, man. I've been acting weird since yesterday."

"Dean, I'm still under the truth spell, too. I literally can't lie to you."

"You seriously can't tell I'm any different?"

"Of course, you're different, Dean!" Sam's voice resonates with the concrete in the walls and under their feet, producing a dull echo. "Repressing your emotions is one of your major personality traits normally. And it's one thing to hide your feelings from us—because everyone has the right to privacy. But I guess I am sort of hoping that this whole thing at least helps you be more honest with yourself."

"What? You think I've been secretly burying a love of your ridiculous hair this entire time and want me to come to terms with it?"

"I think that, if I cut it, you would miss making fun of me for it."

Dean snorts.

"The truth spell should wear off later today. So just—consider this. If you're feeling…unsettled about something and you want to figure out why, try talking out loud to yourself about it. Maybe, there's a part of you that knows what's going on, even if you don't want to admit it."

"Thanks, Dr. Phil, I'll get right on that."

Sam sighs. "It was worth a try. I'm gonna go change," he says, before proceeding to jog back to his room.

"You look ridiculous!" Dean calls after him, just so his brother knows he means it.

/

Dean goes to drop off his dirty laundry in his room, only to wind up kicking the same box all over again. "Dammit," he says, vowing to make himself a pile of French toast and leaving exactly none for Sammy as he shoves his slightly red toes into socks and then boots.

He grabs one of the books at random, opening it to the page lined with a neon green post-it note.

_"Love you," Lisa murmured. _

_Luckily, she didn't seem to notice the way his arms tensed around her—just sighed out another breath before her eyes dropped into sleep. She was beautiful like this. _

_Hell, she was beautiful always. Kind, no-nonsense, and the best mother Ben could ask for. "I don't deserve you," Dean muttered into her hair. _

_It's not that he didn't want to give her everything—to say "I love you, too," and mean it. But how could he when "I"—the things that made him Dean Winchester—didn't really exist anymore? Not since Stull Cemetery when Sammy jumped into the Pit, not since the car ride with Cas when he left Dean for Heaven, not since he locked up the Impala and the tools of his old life…_

Is this really what Sam wanted him to know about himself? Dean wonders. That he was a crap boyfriend? _Thanks, but no thanks._ And yet, as if the book has a memory of its own, it opens up to the next marked section when he tries to set it on the desk and his eyes skim the page automatically.

_Lisa would ask questions about his life—and he tried to be as honest as he could be with her—even opening up about Sam. But he never mentioned Cas—telling most of his stories about the Apocalypse with an angel-sized hole in the middle. _

_He couldn't bring himself to pray either._

_And yet, as hard as he tried, he saw him in the angel Lisa wanted to put on the tree for Christmas and in late-July power outages. Sometimes, on nights he couldn't sleep, he found himself watching the night sky for the few minutes when it was the exact right color of blue. He shouldn't care this much, he reminded himself around a swallow of whiskey. Not about someone who left him here when he needed him the most._

_But he was there,_ Dean realizes faintly. Watching invisibly. Thinking he couldn't intrude on Dean's perfect suburban life. A part of him wishes he could go back and tell himself what he knows now—and maybe, just maybe he could have made different choices. _Like what?_ His own voice asks inside his head.

_This is stupid, _he thinks instead of answering_._ So he missed Cas. That wasn't a shocker, was it? And why did Sam believe something from this long ago had anything to do with his mental state now?

He should go to Sam with the box of books and tell him that, as expected, they contained nothing new—and whatever his brother imagined he'd learn from these pages was completely off the mark. Instead, he shoves the books under his bed, decides he's going to make sausage _and_ bacon, and tells himself for the thousandth time this morning that everything is perfectly fine.


	14. Chapter 14

Dean knows the second Cas enters the kitchen, even with his back turned. Which is impressive considering the angel is a sneaky little dude with or without wings. He's just about to congratulate himself on not getting startled for once when Cas is suddenly directly behind him, leaning over his shoulder to take a look at what he's making. "Dude, I'm pretty sure there's a better viewing area, like two feet that way."

Now, in recent years, Cas has pretty much learned that means "back the hell up" but today, he asks instead, "Am I making you uncomfortable? Do you want me to move?"—breath ghosting the back of Dean's neck. The bacon he's trying to flip slides off his spatula.

"Yes—no," the truth spell has him replying before he's really thought about it. "I mean," he corrects. "You do whatever you want, Man. But you're taking the risk I'm gonna elbow you in the gut or something."

Cas only hums in answer.

After a few minutes, Dean relaxes some, lost in the rhythm and the smells of cooking. Every time he needs to go for something like the milk, Cas obediently steps out of the way.

"So, last night, I was thinking…" Cas begins, and Dean's calm evaporates faster than the butter he's got going in his second pan. Quickly, he scoops another dollop in before placing an egg-coated slice of bread down.

"Yeah. Contemplating which version of the Bible is best? 'Cause I got to tell you, Man, they're all boring as hell."

"No, that was not what I was thinking," Cas's voice manages to frown at him. "And while there are many appropriately unpleasant descriptions of hell, 'boring' is not one of them."

"Never mind, Cas. Just, uh, tell me what's on your mind." He chances a quick glance back. He's about 80% sure he fell asleep on the angel's shoulder last night, but hopefully, that's not what he wants to talk about. Now or ever.

"The questionnaire," Cas says, as if it should have been obvious. "Share a total of five positive characteristics about your partner. I've been thinking about my answers."

"Oh, right. You can always just say I have great taste in cars and music. Two freebies right there."

"Is that what you want me to say?"

Dean spins around to face him. "What's with answering everything with a question this morning?"

Cas rests his back against the island behind him, arms crossed over his chest, and somehow, it makes him look more like Dean than Dean thought he was capable of. "I might have talked to Sam earlier-" the angel admits and _Aren't little brothers supposed to grow out of being annoying and meddling at some point?_ "And I mentioned that I still struggle to understand the differences between what you say and what you mean sometimes. He suggested that, for today, I just ask you."

"Uh huh. And why were you two talking about me in the first place?"

"Because you are one of the main things we have in common?" Cas tilts his head. "Do you not want me to discuss my feelings for you with your brother?"

"Woah, woah, Buddy," Dean interrupts, feeling his face glow. "I don't think that came out the way you meant it. You don't have _feelings_ for me."

"Of course, I do, Dean. I feel fear and worry when you're in danger and relief when you come out of a fight unscathed. I feel more loyalty to you than I feel to my brethren."

"That's not-"

"When I'm annoyed at you, I feel annoyed with almost everything around me. But when you're happy—singing in Baby at the top of your lungs and, for once, not thinking about the weight of the world on your shoulders—I feel like maybe God hasn't abandoned the world quite as much as I thought. When you invite me to movie night and insist I eat popcorn I can't taste, I feel grateful that you've chosen me to be your friend. And when you fall asleep without nightmares, I feel peaceful. I have many feelings for you."

Dean has made his heart stop enough times to be intimately familiar with the sudden, painful halt of all the blood in his body. But it's OK, it doesn't mean anything—he's happy when Cas and Sam are happy, too—he just doesn't say it like some impassioned monologue from Dr. Sexy.

Cas studies him, carefully, the way he looks at ancient texts. "Now am I making you uncomfortable?" he asks.

"A little, yeah."

"Would you like it better if I didn't tell you things like this?"

Dean turns the stove off, moves the pan with the half-finished French toast onto another burner. _The fucker's doing this on purpose._ "You're fishing for something, Cas. What is it?"

Cas smiles, sadly, and shakes his head.

"Here," he says, taking a folded-up piece of notebook paper from his pocket and handing it over to Dean. "It's my list—my answer to the question."

"You wrote it down?" Dean asks, disbelievingly.

"As I said, I thought about it a lot. Eat, read it. I think—I think I'm gonna to go for a walk. Pray to me when you want to resume." And with that, the angel slips his trench coat off the chair it's been resting on for two days and heads for the stairs.

Dean looks down at the piece of paper, then back at his half-made breakfast. He doesn't really want to have anything to do with either one of them.

_Screw it, it's 5 o'clock somewhere,_ he thinks, going for the Jack.

He leaves the kitchen a mess and heads back to his room, immediately searching out his cassette player, which currently has a half-finished tape in the deck.

_In the days of my youth  
I was told what it was to be a man  
Now I've reached the age  
I've tried to do all those things the best I can  
No matter how I try  
I find my way to the same old jam_

The opening verse of _Good Times, Bad Times_ floods through his headphones as he sits with his back to his headboard.

He unfolds the piece of paper and damn, Cas's handwriting looks like it should be sprouting flowers or some shit.

_#1 You're the least selfish person that I know. _

Dean snorts.

_When you choose to be selfish, it is because you want to protect yourself—not because you're trying to get more than what you have._

_#2 You're much smarter than you give yourself credit for—in part, because you place too much of an emphasis on book learning, on the grades you didn't get while you were trying to take care of Sam. But it is with cleverness, resourcefulness, and ingenuity that you've faced—and defeated—creatures who have had centuries longer to learn than you._

_#3 You have an incredible capacity for forgiveness—not just when it comes to me or Sam, but when it comes to the world. Others who have gone through a fraction of the tragedies that you have see that as a justification to turn against everything—but you often give people the benefit of the doubt and think that humanity is always worth saving._

_#4 You find pleasure in small things and simple moments._

_#5 When you love something or someone, it's with your entire being._

It's like Dean can hear Cas's voice in his head. And while he's already unsure how to take what he's read so far, this list is followed by a second.

_5 Things That I Don't Like About You_

_#1 Sometimes, your selflessness borders on self-destruction. And because you don't value yourself the way you should, you don't understand how the risks you take affect the people around you._

_#2 Because you're already worried about being perceived as unintelligent, you purposefully play into stereotypes and ridicule yourself because you think that means others won't._

_#3 You stubbornly believe your soul is irreparably tarnished by the things that you've done to keep yourself and Sam alive—for the ways you've gone about saving the world. But I've seen your soul, Dean. I've held it in my hands, and I can't describe how beautiful it is._

_#4 You pretend not to enjoy things that you do because it doesn't fit in with the idea others have of you. You can be a badass hunter who listens to Taylor Swift and likes to LARP, Dean—I promise one does not exclude the other._

Dean has a sudden premonition that he shouldn't read the last point, feeling like his heart is trying to use his ribcage as a punching bag.

_#5 You know the way I feel about you. You just pretend not to._

Dean closes his eyes too late, only barely recognizing the song has changed to _Ten Years Gone_.

_Did you ever really need somebody  
And really need 'em bad  
Did you ever really want somebody  
The best love you ever had  
Do you ever remember me, baby  
Did it feel so good  
'Cause it was just the first time  
And you knew you would_

_Through the eyes an' I sparkle  
Senses growing keen  
Taste your love along the way  
See your feathers preen  
Kind of makes me feel sometimes  
Didn't have to grow  
We are eagles of one nest  
The nest is in our soul_


	15. Chapter 15

The tape cuts off after eight songs. Dean plays it over from the beginning. Again, and then again. Nothing exists outside of the lyrics. Sometimes, when the music gets quiet and he can hear himself think again, brief anger overwhelms him, but, luckily, it's soon drowned out by guitar riffs.

He reaches song #8 for the fifth time and realizes he can't make himself rewind anymore.

_Why?_ _Why are you doing this? _he accuses Cas in his mind, careful not to let the thought leave the room. _We were fixing all this stuff between us—and now we're going to go back to avoiding each other. For what? I _told you_ that you don't have feelings for me. _

He breathes heavily around his next gulp of whiskey.

He wonders what Sam's gonna think when he sees the unfinished breakfast in the kitchen—his mind already yelling that _he better not fuckin' try to come in here. _But, lucky for the oldest Winchester, he's left alone. Just him and all the thoughts he doesn't want to be thinking.

_It'll be OK,_ he thinks 20 minutes later, once he's calmed down some. _I'll just explain to him why that isn't—why he shouldn't—why I can't—_

He never actually finishes the sentence.

_Our friendship has survived so much crap. There's no way we're gonna let it self-destruct over something like this, _he insists instead.

He actually falls asleep at one point, clutching his bottle of Jack like it's a baby. When he wakes up an hour later, he's certainly not hungover, but his thoughts do have a slight protective wool coating over them.

He knows he needs to call Cas back, to tell him that he doesn't want to lose him, but he loves him like a brother and that's all. And yet…What had Sam said? To talk to himself out loud? He can do that. He can practice what he is going to say to Cas. _I'm sorry, Buddy, but I don't think of you that way._

"I-" he tries, already choking on that one word.

_Dammit._ He closes his mouth—sets the whiskey on his nightstand, shakily.

_Come on, Dean, you can do this. You've faced Death with a capital D. You stuffed yourself full of souls so you could blow yourself up. You taught Sammy how to drive. You've done scarier shit than this._

He lets himself picture Cas. Dark hair, tan skin, blue eyes. Stubble, long neck, the hint of collar bones he feels under his hands when he goes to adjust the angel's tie.

He swallows.

He forces himself to picture what it would be like to step closer…to watch that blue he lo—likes—so much get edged out by dilating pupils. To hear a tiny hitch in Cas's breath—a sign he is caught up in the moment since he doesn't actually need to breathe.

So far, the mental image is OK, he realizes. And then he imagines himself pushing closer—just brushing those slightly-chapped lips with his and tasting….

_Nope, nope, nope,_ Dean wrenches himself away from that thought, his heart elevated in panic, purposefully ignoring the way he's gone slightly hard. He feels like he might throw up.

A few minutes later, when his stomach settles, he tries again—remembering what it was like to have Cas press him against the wall of that alley all those years ago. The sheer intensity of that glare, the way his hard muscles felt against him, the barely restrained power. What if, instead of punching him, Cas had leaned in to kiss him with bruising force? What if one of the hands he'd used to haul Dean up by his jacket lapels instead moved to Dean's hip, keeping him still while his lips traveled from his mouth to his jaw…to his neck…? Just the barest graze of teeth….

His thoughts come to an abrupt stop when he hears himself make a noise he should absolutely not be making.

"I like girls, dammit," he insists to the empty room as if expecting the silence to argue with him. It kinda does.

He recalls his own revelation from yesterday—that Cas isn't a man really—he's a goddamn wave of celestial intent—but his _eyes_ think he is a dude and his _brain_ thinks he is a dude, so what the fuck is wrong with his dick?

Say it out loud, Sam had said.

"I might have-" But, no, he can't bring himself to admit that either.

He closes his eyes and starts praying. _Cas? You mind stopping by?_ he asks as gently as possible.

He waits for twenty minutes. And it's like waiting for a hellhound to come get him all over again. At last, he hears footsteps outside his door. A pause. He imagines Cas is deciding whether to knock or not. Eventually, the door just opens.

They look at each other. Dean thought he knew what it was like to have Cas stare at him—to stare _into_ him—but this time, he takes it to an entirely new level and Dean finally gets how much the angel has been holding back. Dean's soul feels like it's vibrating under his skin—possibly trying to escape his body—but he's not ready for a look like this.

"I'm not expecting you to reciprocate, Dean," Cas murmurs at last, finally stepping out of the light of the hallway into the room. "I just realized how tired I was of pretending."

Dean closes his eyes, hating the sound of resignation in Cas's voice. "Five things I like about you," he thinks quickly. "You can be damn terrifying when you want to be and sometimes, I want to stop in the middle of a fight just to watch you do your thing. But, at the same time, you literally wouldn't hurt a fly. We get a spider in the bunker and you move it outside rather than let me or Sam squash it."

"I like when you get all sarcastic on me—that you're the only one besides Sam that can really get to me when I'm in a funk. I—you told me once that I have no faith—but I have faith in you…"

"And, you're way better looking than Jimmy Novak."

Cas squints in his direction. "That makes no-"

"Trust me, it's true."

Dean wipes his sweaty hands on his jeans. "You say you have-" he makes a vague gesture in the air between them.

"_Feelings,_ Dean. You're not actually allergic to the word, you know," Cas says. At any other time, it might have been accompanied by an eye roll.

"And you really mean…?"

Cas frowns. "I want to get into your pants," he responds, flatly, raising an eyebrow that dares Dean to argue with him.

Dean's stomach swoops—even more so when he licks his lips and notices Cas following the motion. _Has he always done that?_

"I-" _Get it together, Winchester!_ "I've been working on this mixtape for a while," he finally sputters, indicating his cassette player. "For you. But I'm—_it's_ not ready yet. Still got to add a few more songs before—before I can give it to you. And, considering the kind of person I am, it might—it might take a long ass time. Or it might never be quite…ready. But I thought you'd want to know that I'm…" he clears his throat. "Working on it."

"You're…working on it?" Cas repeats, with a disbelieving tilt of his head.

"Yes…?" His voice squeaks, slightly.

And if there is anything that is possibly worth the way his nerves have been on edge all morning, it's the smile that grows like a slow-moving sunrise over Cas's face.


	16. Chapter 16

"Your house, containing everything you own, catches fire. After saving your loved ones and pets, you have time to safely make a final dash to retrieve any one item. What would it be? Why?"

Dean forces his eyes up from the phone to somewhere in the direction of Cas's face. "I guess whoever designed this thing didn't expect anyone answering to have _actually_ had their house go up in flames."

"Or for anyone answering to be an angel. Unless it was holy fire, I would just keep going back for whatever items you and Sam wanted me to get." Cas shrugs, the trench coat that he kept on after his walk nearly sweeping the floor where he sits on Dean's desk chair. "I would probably start with particular magical items in the storage room, though. Some of them would likely cause a nuclear-level event if they were to be set on fire."

Well, _that_ will be fun to think about on nights he's struggling to sleep in the future.

"I, uh, would save the Impala if the garage counts as being part of the house. If it's just the stuff in the main bunker space, I guess I'd want to keep Dad's journal. It's helped us through a lot and Sam and I have both added a shit ton to it at this point."

Cas looks at him patiently, as if waiting for him to add more, and he hates how awkward this silence is. It's what he imagines working in an open floor plan office must be like for the poor saps who have 9-5 jobs—being painfully aware of everyone else's presence but pretending you aren't. "_What?_" he eventually snaps, after another handful of seconds.

Cas cocks his head. "I was just waiting for the next question."

Right.

He quickly looks down at the list—_What roles do love and affection play in your life?_—and makes the executive decision to skip that one because, frankly, he's fallen for a lot of traps in his four decades on Earth, but he refuses to wander into one that obviously dangerous right now.

Before he can wonder if an omission counts as a lie, he reads instead, "Share with your partner an embarrassing moment in your life." Dean's mind provides many suggestions—all of which are sexual—none of which he wants to share with his…Cas. "You go first," he prompts.

"You already know about many of my…miscalculations with humans," Cas reasons. "But I suppose I haven't told you much about what I was like as a fledgling."

This catches Dean off-guard. "There's actually a word for baby angels?"

"I wasn't a baby in the traditional sense of the word. I was…newly-created."

"Potato, potahto, dude. It's the same thing."

The angel's look of exasperation is so familiar that Dean grins.

And then he remembers that everything is supposed to be weird now. Isn't it?

"Fine," Dean says, shifting on the bed slightly. "I'll let you win this fight so long as I get to win the next one. Just tell me about newly-created Cas." Even though he knows it's not what the angel would have looked like, he can't help but imagine a pint-sized version of Jimmy Novak, all too big blue eyes and scraped knees.

Cas leans forward, hands clasped together. "Once, I was walking on the beach with one of my older brothers, who stopped me at the last moment from walking on a fish. He told me there would be big plans for this fish—that it would turn into the culmination of all God's plans."

"What? Sushi?"

"Humanity…After much evolution."

"So…I'm related to sushi?" Dean clarifies, pointing to his own chest.

"In a _very_ roundabout way."

"Remind me to tell Sam that next time he tries to get me to eat more fish."

"_Dean…_" And, OK, he can see how a chick might think Cas raising his eyebrow like that is hot. "Do you want to hear the story or not?"

He shuts up.

"Apparently Gabriel found out about this around the time that the fish started growing legs and walking. He thought it would be hilarious to create a simulation of it and then make me think I had pinned it to a tree with my angel blade during one of my training sessions."

"I…was very upset. I started shedding feathers and-" By the grimace that Cas is making, Dean assumes this is a much bigger deal than he understands. Luckily, Cas seems to recognize his expression and explains. "Feathers that are shed due to strong emotions still contain some residual grace—so they are not only powerful, but they will reveal some of their owner's feelings and memories to whoever picks them up. It's sort of like scattering the pages of your diary around and expecting no one to read them."

"Did you get Gabriel back at least?"

"I may or may not have asked several dozen angels to pray the same noise at him until he apologized. It's hard to describe—but I would say the closest human equivalent would be Styrofoam squeaking."

"Not bad," he admits, thinking about how long it's been since he last pranked Sam. Cas would have to be on his side—just by default, right?

"Your turn, Dean."

Crap, he hasn't thought of anything yet. "Er…."

Eventually, he stumbles through a story about breaking into someone's house for a case when their dog came out of nowhere to bite him in the ass. "Huge German Shepard named 'Duchess' of all things—and of course, she had to bark up a storm. By the time the cops showed up to check out the disturbance, the damn dog had ripped a hole through my pants AND my underwear. Let's just say, when the police chick frisked me down and handcuffed my hands behind my back, it was a bit more of an intimate experience than it normally is." _Great, this turned out sexual anyway._

However, Cas is just sitting there like normal, lips turned slightly upward in amusement like normal. Ever since they resumed answering questions he's been absolutely and completely…normal.

Dean knows it's impossible—but he's genuinely starting to wonder if the angel _forgot_ what happened between them this morning. You can't take that shit back. Cas might end up regretting what he said—saying it wasn't real or that he changed his mind. But he can't pretend like it never happened.

"Aren't you supposed to be jealous or something?" Dean asks, realizing that, somewhere along the way, his brain completely disconnected from his mouth. "I mean…. No, I _don't_ mean—" God, he hates feeling like this. Self-consciousness. But mostly, exhausted. The way a wrung-out towel feels. "Look, today has been a lot for me. I have no clue what I'm saying or what we're doing right now."

"We're…talking?"

"But I don't know how to just…talk to you…now that you've told me…" Dean rubs the back of his neck. "You know, what you told me…"

"For the love of…" Cas grumbles. "Would you like some kind of code word for it?"

"You're into me."

"Close enough."

"But you're annoyed by me."

Cas leans back. "Those two things have never been mutually exclusive before. I don't see why they would start being so now. All that's changed is that you're aware that the emotions coexist."

"But…" Dean struggles to put any words to the uneasiness inside him, wishing he had some way of just thrusting the whole tangled, vomit-inducing thing at Cas and saying 'here!'. "When we're at diners and I hit on waitresses, you don't seem…you know…bothered or anything."

"Dean," Cas sighs, closing his eyes briefly. "When I said earlier that I didn't expect you to reciprocate, I meant it. I've believed you when you've called me 'friend' and 'brother'—and have been genuinely happy with the closeness you allow me. I was hoping for honesty between us. Not…." He smiles somewhat sadly.

"Anyway, you hitting on women you find attractive is a fairly common sight. And since there was never a possibility in my mind of you ever returning the same feelings I have for you, it would have been unfair of me to try and stop you from seeking companionship wherever you found it appropriate."

Cas pauses only a moment. "I suppose I have also taken comfort in the fact that their place in your lives is mostly fleeting. They will not be the person you count on to back you up on a hunt or choose to confide in about your worries. You take a lot of people into your bed. You don't take many people into your family and I recognize the privilege of that."

Dean barely remembers high school science, but he doesn't think any frog in biology class was ever dissected as casually as that. "So…_not_ jealous then?" he wants to clarify.

Cas's eyebrows furrow in confusion. "Do you _want_ me to be jealous?"

Dean doesn't know so he doesn't answer. "You're talking about all this stuff in the past, but what if, right now, I decided to go out and find someone to take me home?"

The angel tilts his head to the side slowly. "Considering our…circumstances, I might take it more personally than I have before. But I will _always_ be your friend, Dean. I will _always_ be your family. That won't change just because there's another layer of complexity to it now."

The two of them examine each other for a moment.

"_Are_ you currently interested in leaving to find a partner?" Cas asks after a minute.

"No." He actually can't think of a time he wanted sex less in his life. He just wasn't sure how he would feel about Cas telling him not to.

"If you do, all I ask is that you let me know. Besides that, the only other expectation I have is for you to be Dean—as infuriating and crass and insensitive as that can be sometimes."

"I really failed at teaching you how to pick up people, didn't I?"

"Perhaps you'll explain it to me again at some point," Cas says, dragging his gaze over Dean obviously so that he unwillingly feels each inch of his body heat up in turn. By the time Cas reaches his eyes again, he feels like he's wearing a lot less than three layers and he can't help but swallow nervously.

_Well, shit._


	17. Chapter 17

"Tell your partner something that you like about them already."

Dean frowns at his phone. "Didn't we just have to say _five_ things we liked about each other three questions ago? That's what got us into this whole mess in the first place." He looks at Cas and winces. "I didn't mean 'mess.' Well, yes, I did but…." He points an accusing finger. "You're not allowed to hold anything I say against me until I'm done freaking out."

Cas looks him over with concern this time. "For all my flaws, I don't think I've ever judged you harshly based on word choice alone—unless you were _trying_ to be hurtful."

Dean thinks back to calling the angel a 'baby in a trench coat' and recognizes that, if Cas were 99% of the girls he's dated in his life, he'd probably have gotten a lot worse than the silent treatment. "Well, everything's different now, right?"

"No, Dean," Cas says, with almost-anger, causing the oldest Winchester to look up from his own hands.

When they catch eyes, Cas's face softens but only marginally. "I really am sorry that my confession has been so distressing for you. But I want to reemphasize that nothing _has_ to change. We already work and live together. You know me better than those who I have spent millennia fighting beside and I think I am one of the few people who can claim to know the real you. The difference between that and a romantic relationship should be minimal.

"But if you think that being 'with me' in that way must, by necessity, fundamentally alter our dynamic—or fundamentally alter who _you_ are and that's why you're 'freaking out'—I don't want that."

"Been a while since you pulled out the air quotes there, Buddy," Dean can't help but mention. Then feels like smacking his head against the wall. "I didn't mean 'Buddy.'"

"That's my point, Dean. I _am_ your buddy. You've always said that. Why should the term bother me—or you—all of a sudden? If you desire, I'll _only_ be your buddy. Or, if you decide that you want something more, I'll be your friend _and_ something else. Why do you seem to think that one excludes the other?"

Sometimes, talking to an angel is a lot like talking to a kid. They don't ask 'why the sky is blue?' or 'how come people are mean?' but things like 'why did humans come up with the custom of shaking hands?' or 'what is the point of feeling buyer's regret?' where you're forced to tell them that you really have no fuckin' clue and that's just the way things are. Like now, the only thing Dean can think of to say is, "I don't make the rules. That's just how it's always worked."

"Don't you think that Sam was friends with Jessica?"

_"I just miss her…. All the time…everything about her," Sam whispered, head resting against the Impala's passenger side window as rain streaked down the glass. "The dozen extra pillows she kept on the bed that were impossible to sleep on. Or how she'd eat blueberry muffins or blueberry pie, but would wrinkle her nose if she found fresh blueberries in the fridge._

_"She loved candles—had them all over the apartment—and she'd switch them out by season. Except one day I told her Mom died in a fire. The next time I came home, I noticed she'd switched all the candles out for scent diffusers. Didn't even mention it to me._

_"And she was so smart. You have no idea how she could just—cut my arguments down to nothing in two seconds flat." Sam's already-closed eyes tightened further behind his lids and his voice cracked with pain. "She was my best friend, Dean…and, someday, she was going to be my wife."_

"Well, Sammy has always been better at this stuff than me," Dean answers Cas quietly. It's true. Ruby-related detours aside, his little brother found something real with Jessica, with Amelia—at least until Dean Winchester showed back up on his doorstep. Now, with Eileen, it seems like he's on the verge of it again.

Cas rolls his eyes. "You don't know that because you haven't tried it before. The closest you came to being friends with a romantic interest was Lisa—which was also your most successful partnership."

Again, he can hear Sam say, _"You have no idea how she could just—cut my arguments down to nothing in two seconds flat." _

Doesn't mean Dean has to admit it though. Especially since knowing Cas is right and _believing_ it are two very different things. "I like the head tilt."

Cas's head automatically moves to the side.

"Yeah, that one."

Cas sighs, seemingly aware he's not going to get more out of him. "I like how invested you are in your hobbies, be it cars or cowboys."

Dean nods, accepting, and then reads the next words off his phone without looking ahead. "When did you last cry in front of another person? By yourself?"

"Hell no!" he rushes to say, practically interrupting himself. "I am 6 ft 1 and have had a Sammy-sized amount of chick flick moments today. I am not answering that. Besides," he argues, gesturing at Cas. "Angels don't do that sorta stuff."

"No, they do not," Cas agrees.

Dean's sense of relief changes colors almost instantly at Cas's careful tone. "Why do you sound like that?" he asks, confused.

"Like what?"

"Like you're trying to lie around a truth spell."

"I'm not lying. Angels do not perform unnecessary bodily functions, including the production of tears. I'm agreeing to skip this question based on that fact."

_But Cas hasn't always been an angel,_ Dean realizes. And doesn't that make him feel like shit?

They talked about Cas's human experiences some yesterday—but what had Cas actually said besides that it sucked? Nothing concrete—but Dean already knew he'd been kidnapped and tortured a few times. Wasn't that enough reason to get emotional even without there being anything else?

Regardless, it's clear that Cas doesn't want to elaborate and Dean isn't going to make him—not when whatever happened is probably his fault to begin with.

Instead, he asks, "Weren't you more comfortable over here yesterday?" Dean nods with his head towards the spot on the bed where Cas had been reading questions the day before.

"Oh," Cas responds, ducking his head. "I thought it might help you be at ease with…everything…if I gave you some personal space."

"And _I_ thought you wanted us to behave normally around each other," Dean points out. "And you definitely get in closer than this usually."

A tiny smile quirks the left corner of Cas's lips. "Alright," he murmurs, rising to his feet. He goes to remove his trench coat and suit jacket.

"Woah, woah," Dean halts him with his hands up. "All clothes are to remain on the angel. And keep your hands contained to your own vessel at all times. Basically, we're following rollercoaster rules here."

Cas squints at him. "Are you making some sort of innuendo about me riding you?"

"What?!" Dean panics. "No! I was saying the opposite of that!"

"I…genuinely don't understand you some times…." Cas says, pausing with one arm halfway out of his coats.

"Yes, well, join the club."

"You told me to act like yesterday. I didn't have either of these on yesterday and they're only outwear."

"Yes, well, you wear all those layers so much, people get used to it. When you don't, it's like you're practically naked. Ask Sam. Or Claire. I bet they'd agree."

"You want me to ask my body's biological daughter if I look naked when wearing a shirt and trousers," Cas asks in disbelief, but he does, thankfully, slip his arm through his sleeves again.

"No," Dean states, emphatically, scrubbing his face with his hands. "I want you to zap me back in time to five minutes ago so I can stop myself from having this conversation in the first place."


	18. Chapter 18

No one doubts that Dean Winchester is a stubborn son of a bitch. It's something about himself that he is often proud of, sometimes gets mad at himself for, but has never really made any attempt to change.

And yet, despite being sure that he was never going to be able to take a shit again with how clenched this whole situation with Cas made him, he finds himself relaxing without his permission after an hour of nothing catastrophic happening. Sure, the questions have been uncomfortable—

_"What, if anything, is too serious to be joked about?"_

_"Bobby," Dean stated, green eyes stony. "Charlie, Kevin, anyone who's dead and stayed dead."_

_Cas responded with a quiet, "Balthazar and Samandriel."_

And to dig the knife in a little deeper, this was followed not two minutes later by, "Of all the people in your family, whose death would you find most disturbing? Why?"

_"Sammy," Dean responded immediately. And not just because the rest of them already bit it. He spent 40 years in Hell for his pain-in-the-ass little brother—more time than he's spent topside. But the three days he lingered on after Sam got stabbed before making a deal had somehow gone on longer._

_Cas was more thoughtful. "I regret the loss of every angel—especially since our limited numbers mean Heaven is always at risk of failing. However, I wouldn't feel any of their deaths the same way I would if something happened to you or Sam."_

_Dean internally winced, wondering if he should…? "I haven't been…you know, my best…when you've kicked the bucket either," he said, awkwardly._

_"I'm…sorry?" Cas offered, clearly guessing at the correct response._

_"I just don't want you to think…. Sam's always gonna be my #1, but that doesn't mean-"_

_"Oh," Cas murmured. "Dean, that's not—that's never been an issue for me. You wouldn't be you without how much you love Sam."_

_Dean could tell just from Cas's expression that he meant it—and if he didn't already know that Cas deserved to be on a Christmas tree more than any of those douchebags who called themselves angels, this would have pretty much sealed the deal._

Dean doesn't think about it much, but he knows it's not exactly a coincidence that his only kinda serious relationships have happened when Sam hasn't been around. There's an expectation there that the person you're dating is supposed to be the most important person in your life—or at least that, if things go well, they will someday be. But Dean isn't built like that; he wasn't raised like that—to be both brother and boyfriend, because when push comes to shove, he's always gonna choose the first one.

But Cas has never tried to take up room in Dean's life that belongs to Sam. If anything, he's built an extension for himself—or, more accurately, Dean built it for him and then packed Cas's bags and moved him in—all without ever realizing it was happening. To be honest, Cas has never tried to get him to change _anything_—even the fact that he eats with his mouth full.

And for some reason, _that_ thought is what puts his big gay freak out to rest. At least for now. Cas really would let him go on just as he always has if that's what he decided to do. So, all this pressure he's been feeling? He's putting it on himself.

"Lose the coat, man. If you wanna," Dean tells Cas, gesturing with the hand he's got resting on the one leg he's got pulled up towards his chest. The other is laying out on the bed in front of him.

"I thought that wearing it was protecting you from inappropriate thoughts," Cas responds dryly. "Or was it that you thought it would stop _me_ from doing something untoward?"

Dean ducks his head, "Yeah, well, as Sam would point out, half of what I think and about a third of what I say is inappropriate. I've never let it bother me before."

"You do have quite a tendency for insulting handicapped people in parking lots."

"That just means I'm not ableist or whatever. Someone gets too close to Baby—I don't care who you are—you're getting some cuss words and the finger."

Cas shakes his head, fondly—which is probably not what someone with the last name "of the Lord" should do given the conversation topic—but it inspires a sappy smile of Dean's own.

Using his arms to push off Dean's bed, Cas removes the trench, suit jacket, and loosens his tie slightly; Dean has a sudden desire to take it off and put it on backward—you know, just for old time's sake.

"What's next?" Cas asks once he's seated again, and even though the angel really shouldn't be able to feel any difference from being dressed down, Dean thinks his shoulders look more relaxed.

"Is there something that you've dreamed of doing for a long time? Why haven't you done it?" Dean reads off the screen and then immediately shrugs. "Sure. I got lots of dreams. Getting to shoot a Gatling gun. Winning a Guinness World Record for eating the most pie. Chopping Sammy's hair off in his sleep." His breath rushes out on a sigh, "Sometimes I even think of retiring someday. Opening up a bar like The Roadhouse or fixing up cars like Dad used to.

"Now why don't I? Because one night Planet Earth got a little too tipsy and decided to get a 'Property of the Winchesters' tramp stamp, which makes everything that happens to it our responsibility."

"How about you?" Dean asks.

"Well, I did once propose getting a cat…." Cas mentions, voice tipping towards a question.

"Hell no," Dean shakes his head.

"Then, I suppose _you're_ to blame for me not realizing my dreams," Cas says, spreading his hands, solemnly.

"If I asked for your help cutting Sam's hair, would you?" Dean demands with his eyebrow raised.

"No."

"Then you're getting in the way of my thing just as much as I'm getting in the way of yours."

The two of them get into a stare-off. But unlike their usual intense soul-gazing that always makes Dean feel like he's gone through a wormhole and come out on the other side after several hours or days or centuries have passed—this look only skims the surface, like sunlight reflecting off a lake. It is filled with amusement, almost like they are sharing a laugh though neither of them is making any noise. And Dean remembers something he tends to forget a lot—that it's easy to be with Cas when they don't make it so hard—when it's just them without having to worry about it being them against the world.

"You seem better," Cas observes, because of course, he noticed and, of course, he had to say it out loud. And yet, for the angel, it isn't just about stating the obvious when he points out the color of the sky or that someone made coffee—it's his way of expressing pleasure for the little things that most people scarcely notice.

"I feel…a little less like I'm going to be sick now, yeah."

Cas huffs, "I know I said I didn't care about word choice, but I might have to remind you of that particular sentence in the future." His voice isn't upset, though, meaning he's teasing. _Cas_ is _teasing._

"Eh, I'll make it up to you," Dean says, breaking eye contact, but smirking down at his phone all the same.


	19. Chapter 19

"Tell your partner what you like about them; be very honest this time, saying things that you might not say to someone you've just met," Dean reads, rolling his eyes. "They love this goddamn question."

"They must think it's important," Cas counters, examining him closely—and Dean's got to admit, this is probably harder for the angel to answer—considering he's already admitted to all the emotional stuff. Dean's only blabbered about spiders and said that Cas is a badass fighter.

With that in mind, he takes a breath, figuring he should at least go first. "You know how much I hate the whole destiny schtick. But even before you guys decided to write Sam and me into the Bible, I sorta felt like I didn't have a lot of choice anyway. I mean, what was I gonna do? _Not_ take care of Sam when Dad was going AWOL all the time? _Not_ become a hunter when that was all I was raised to do? _Not_ try to save the world when the only alternative was to watch it burn?

"I mean, you of all people, get it," Dean shrugs, running his hands over his jeans.

"And I know we've talked about how you—you chose me over the grand plan. But the thing is-" He's only realizing now how chick-flicky this is going to sound, and he wants to stop himself, but Cas also deserves to hear it so… "I chose you too."

As nervous as he is, he meets Cas's eyes—wanting to see how he's taking this. The angel looks back steadily, like a beacon from a lighthouse, and Dean fortifies himself for this next part. "Nothing about my life set me up to trust you. But I did. And when you screwed up with the Leviathans, I ultimately chose to forgive you even when I could have just…cut you out.

"I'm probably not explaining this right. But, even though I wouldn't have met you if I wasn't a hunter, it just feels like you _weren't_ a part of my story that was planned out from the beginning. Like you were only meant to make a cameo appearance and I was the one that…wrote you in…because I _wanted_ you to be there.

"So, I, uh," he looks down at his hands again. "I guess something I like about you is that…you really do make me believe in free will. In a few different ways."

There is a pause where all he hears is Cas subtly shifting on the bedspread. When the silence goes on a beat too long, he glances back up only to see Cas hide a smile behind his usual stoic expression. A second later and the smile reappears, then immediately gets tucked away again. And it's fascinating watching him _struggle_ to achieve a poker face.

"I would presume," the angel says, once he seems to have gotten all his features under control. "That you would prefer that I don't make a big deal of what you just said."

Dean releases a grateful sigh. "It would be appreciated, yeah."

"As you wish."

Cas scans the room, casually, like they're playing a game of iSpy instead of Truth or Dare (hold the dare).

"I like the care you put into the Impala," he says, at last, which surprises Dean and maybe disappoints him a little. By this point, he had started expecting everything that came out of the angel's mouth to sound vaguely like it should have swelling classical music underneath it. Cas's lips twitch. "It's especially enjoyable to watch you washing her."

And suddenly, any self-consciousness Dean felt for his own confession gets swept away and he is startled to find himself chuckling. "Glad to know I've been putting on a show," he says and then actually winks, which makes Cas grin again.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Cas?"

"About that question we skipped earlier… 'We are both in this room feeling…?'"

Dean raises his eyebrows, "Yesssss…?"

"I'd like to submit 'hopeful'."

"I'm pretty sure you just jinxed us." He takes in Cas's expression, which is quietly expectant. "Fine, I'll give you that one," he says.

"We are both in this room feeling…" Cas paces his words out carefully. "Like we're going to be more honest with each other even when the truth spell is over."

Dean snorts. "You really have the subtlety of a freight train—but sure, Cas, if it helps, I'll promise to…be more upfront, I guess, as long as you do."

"We are both in this room feeling…"

Dean crosses his arms, amusedly.

And, of course, _that's_ when Sam comes barging into the room.

"What the hell happened to the kitchen?!" they hear before he even fully opens the door. "It looks like a ghost blew up in there…if ghosts actually worked like they do in Ghostbusters."

"That is the movie where the hunters wear strange backpacks and get chased by a giant marshmallow, right?" Cas asks, and Dean is _definitely_ making him watch it again if that is all he got out of it.

Sam is still waiting, impatiently. "I got, uh…distracted by something earlier when I was cooking," Dean explains to his brother and, at the sudden reminder he hasn't eaten anything all day, his stomach gives a loud growl. "Guess I should do something about that, huh?"

"I was just about to pick up an order for pizza," Sam announces. When he sees Dean open his mouth, he cuts him off, "Yes, I got you a meat lovers. And cheese knots. And wings."

"I knew I liked you sometimes."

"Just try to make the kitchen not a disaster area by the time I get back," Sam grumbles, fondly, before leaving as quickly as he came.

Dean turns to Cas, eagerly, "Any chance you could just mojo the mess away?"

"As long as you and Sam can avoid getting life-threatening injuries in the next few hours that would require me to be at full strength. _Do_ you think you can manage that?"

"I'll reschedule accidentally-touching-a-weirdass-artifact-in-the-bunker for the weekend," Dean quips, getting off the bed and stretching his arms over his head, producing a vaguely-disturbing pop in his lower back.

"Or you could just wear gloves," the angel points out, rising also with much less noise.

"Uh huh. I think we're both in this room feeling like you're a sarcastic little shit," Dean says, gesturing for the angel to go in front of him.

"What can I say?" Cas responds, dryly, looking back with one hand on the door frame. "You bring it out in me."

"Hell right, I do!" Dean agrees, enthusiastically.


	20. Chapter 20

Turns out Sam's claim about how messy the kitchen was is highly exaggerated, a fact Dean can't help but grumble about under his breath. When he sees the dirty mixing bowl and frying pan, a few flour-dusted measuring cups, and a bowl of eggshells on the counter, he figures this is something he can handle the old-fashioned way. Cas watches him walk to the sink and turn it on and then rolls up his shirt sleeves to help.

Just like last time they were in the kitchen together, Dean is hyper-aware of Cas's presence at all times—but, if anything, it feels less charged now than it was this morning. He's not on high-alert waiting for Cas to do something that crosses into the inappropriate-for-friends zone because he's already been there and bought the T-shirt. _Nah,_ now that he thinks about it, Cas is much more a collectible coffee mug kinda guy.

A part of him wonders if he should be freaking out about the fact that he's stopped freaking out as much—but, for now, that just seems like too much effort.

Plus, he's rapidly discovering he _likes_ this new version of Cas that has emerged since breakfast—the one whose neutral expression is less frowny than it was before. The one who is not only matching Dean passive-aggressive-insult for passive-aggressive-insult, but, surprisingly, also joke for joke. Seeing him happier is making Dean happier and if a happier Dean is also naturally a bit flirty, it doesn't have to mean anything if he doesn't want it to. Hell, he flirts with his (admittedly female) friends all the time.

When Sam finds them thirty minutes later, Dean is in the middle of prodding Cas to summarize other movies they've watched together. Besides calling Ghostbusters "the one where the hunters wear strange backpacks and fight a marshmallow," Tombstone is "the one with guns and tuberculosis", and Star Wars is "the one in space where some uses of grace are either 'light' or 'dark' and the main villain needs a ventilator". He then called Indiana Jones "the one with the monkey chasing scene" by which, Dean realized with horror, the angel meant Crystal Skull.

"How did you even _see_ that one?" he demands from Cas. "I purposefully didn't show you that shit."

"I am perfectly capable of accessing movies on my own, Dean. And sometimes I like to pick the ones you expressly mention disliking just to see what all the fuss is about. Speaking of which, The Notebook is actually quite touching."

"It's boring and depressing as all fuck."

"I know I don't have much experience with sexual intercourse, but isn't it supposed to be neither of those things?"

Sam can't help but choke out a laugh, causing both men to turn toward him suddenly, hands dripping with soap and water. Dean feels his cheeks heat up. "Pizza?" Sam offers, lifting up the boxes in his hands and shaking them slightly.

Dean opts to wipe his hands over the back of his pants while Cas, after watching Dean do so, reaches for a towel instead.

"So, what have you guys been up to?" Sam asks when they're all sitting down. There's a slight hesitancy to his voice that means he's worried Dean might still be annoyed with him.

"Just your Cosmo quiz shit," Dean admits, breathing hot steam out of his mouth like a dragon as he does so. "Haven't had time to do your assigned reading yet, in case that's what you were fetching for."

"No! I mean, I'm glad you're still doing the questions. A bit surprised, but glad. Where are you guys?"

"Five more to go," Cas answers before Dean can swallow down his bite. "Six if you count the one Dean skipped over and hoped I wouldn't notice."

Dean swallows a little too quickly. "I, uh…hoped you wouldn't notice," he offers, weakly.

Cas turns to Sam, curiously. "I thought I just said that?"

"You did. I was a witness," Sam promises, shaking pepper flakes onto his slice as he relaxes into the moment. "What question did he skip?"

Dean coughs to try to stop anyone from talking, but Cas ignores him. "What roles do love and affection play in your life?"

Sam snorts, "Yeah, I can see why he would avoid that one. It involves talking about feelings."

Dean glares a warning at Cas not to say what he's thinking of saying. The older Winchester may be…adjusting somewhat, but not in front of his _brother_.

Speaking of Sam, he's angled himself in Dean's direction, hands steepled over his plate. "So, Dean, what roles _do_ love and affection play in your life?" He sounds like one of those infomercials that play at 3 in the morning asking you to donate money to some online church.

"I, you know, lo-like things and am...uh…affected by stuff." Of course, Sam's laughing at him. Dean points an accusing finger, "I went to hell for 40 years for you, punk."

"Yes, Dean," Sam says, still chuckling while picking up his slice. "I know you're more of an 'acts of service' kind of guy rather than a 'words of affirmation' type."

Dean gapes. "…Was that _English_?"

"Yes," Cas responds, simply.

"Come on, Dean, you've heard about love languages," Sam insists, with a lot more surety than Dean thinks he has a right to. "It was all over the internet a while back—it's actually quite an interesting way of exploring the role of communi-"

Dean stops him right there. "Seriously, how do you have the time to find all this self-help crap? Cas doesn't _sleep_ and he manages not to get that desperate for something to do."

"Dean…" Cas warns, but Sam seems non-perturbed.

"If it's such crap, then why are you still answering the questions? _Voluntarily?_" he asks.

The two brothers narrow their eyes at each other.

"Eat your damn pizza," Dean orders, finally.

"That's what I thought," Sam responds, with a smirk.

And yet, in spite of that rough start, lunch is pretty nice, actually. Cas and Sam get into a discussion about which popular superstitions have a real basis—everything from broken mirrors to spilled milk.

Turns out 'step on a crack and you'll break your mother's back' comes from vengeful fairies that live in 'between' spaces like doorways and windows and, sometimes, the gaps in sidewalks. They don't like people stomping on the veil between this world and theirs, so, at midnight, when the whole world lingers 'between' night and day, they sometimes go after the families of those they think wronged them. As if Dean needs more reasons to dislike those little fuckers.

Eventually, though, everyone starts finishing up. Dean stands to relieve the sudden tightness in his waistband, combining pizza slices into one box so he can begin breaking down the leftover cardboard while Sam clears plates. Cas hangs around, uncertainly.

"Hey, why don't you go, er…" _Back to my bedroom_ sounds kind of weird. "Wait for me," Dean says instead, which is hardly better. Cas nods and turns, and Dean catches a glimpse of Jimmy Novak's back muscles through the thin material of Cas's dress shirt. _Practically naked,_ just like he said. But that's not something to think about right now.

Instead, he waits until he is sure the angel is gone, then clears his throat. Sam sticks his head out from where he'd been rearranging the contents of the refrigerator. "Yeah, Dean. What's up?"

"I just wanted to say that, uh…"

Sam looks at him, hopefully.

"God, you're annoying," Dean says, almost with relief. "And a first-class nerd. And you spend more time in the bathroom than a girl. And your farts really are toxic. But, uh…despite all that stuff, I…you know…" he shoves the cardboard into the recycling bin. "Love you, Sammy."

Sam's eyes widen and get a bit of a glassy sheen to them and, yup, this is every bit as horrible as he thought it would be. "Did you just say you love me?" Sam asks and this is why they have emotional conversations in the Impala—where there's an excuse not to _look_ at each other.

"You asked a question at lunch and I'm answering it. Just don't expect me to say it again. I swear that word's got an aftertaste. And you can't go dying now on me either just because…well, for any reason, you hear me?"

"Yes, I hear you, Dean," Sam promises. "Loud and clear."

Dean just barely dodges a hug as he escapes into the hallway.


	21. Chapter 21

"If you were going to become a close friend with your partner, please share what would be important for him or her to know," Cas reads, while Dean rests with his hands behind his head, eyes closed, just listening to Cas's voice.

"I sort of feel like we've got this one covered, Dude," Dean replies, lazily. "You probably know me better than I know myself by now."

"That's likely. You don't see yourself very clearly."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean says, dismissively, hoping to cut Cas off from saying something sappy. "And I know you well enough to guess you're doing that little frowny thing between your eyebrows, so I say we go on to the next question."

Cas grumbles, but makes an effort to find his place again. "If you knew that in one year, you would die suddenly, would you change anything about the way you are living now? Why?"

"Ha! I've already made that deal," Dean points out. "And it didn't change me all that much. Sure, I tried the whole 'live every day like it's your last' thing—but it wasn't all it's cracked up to be. Even _pie_ doesn't taste as good when you know your days of eating pie are numbered.

"Since then, I've died enough, it's not really a motivating factor for changing my ways." He turns his head in Cas's direction, still with his eyes shut. "Anyway, what about you? You've never had time to _plan_ your death before. You just usually—explode into goo."

Cas makes a tutting sound to let Dean know he doesn't particularly appreciate the visual.

"What?" he asks, innocently. "It's the truth! Chuck even got some you goo in his hair the first time."

"Now that I know his identity, I wonder if I should be grateful that he brought me back or angry that he let me die in the first place."

"From my experience with dads, the answer is always both."

"You're probably right," Cas lets out a long sigh.

"I suppose if I had one year left as an angel, I would spend time healing as many people I could. After all, disease is its own kind of monster and those who fight it day in and day out sometimes have a tougher job than we do. If I gave up my grace …I would _still_ want to help people, but I'd perhaps indulge in a few more human experiences."

"Yeah? What would those be?" Dean asks with a slight smirk.

"I don't know. Sam could probably help me find lists of activities on the internet. I've heard skydiving is something people do when they fear imminent demise…" Cas's voice trails off like a piano at the end of a song. "Dean, are you…pouting?"

"Yes!" Dean shouts only to realize that he meant to say "No!"

He feels the angel lean closer to him and he instinctively presses his head as far back into the pillow as it will go to get away from the scrutiny.

"I…don't understand," Cas admits, breath ghosting over his face. "Why are you upset?"

"Guess I just figured I would rate somewhere on your 'to do' list…," he grumbles. "And yes, Cas, that was an innuendo," he adds, rolling his eyes behind closed lids.

Dean tries not to squirm in the sudden silence. When Cas does talk, he starts off slowly. "A few hours ago, you were concerned that everything I did or said was going to be colored by my affections for you. But now, you're upset because I chose _not_ to make an explicit comment…? Explain."

"It's stupid. Let's just move on to the next question."

And yeah, he must know Cas pretty well, because he can _feel_ how tight with tension the angel's jaw is where it still hovers a few inches away.

"Fine," Cas says, which _does_ surprise him. "The next question is, 'Share a personal problem and ask your partner's advice on how he or she might handle it.'

"My problem is that the whole point of this is to discuss our issues rather than letting harmful misunderstandings fester—and you won't tell me what's bothering you. So, how do you propose I get you to talk?"

Dean cracks his eyes open to snatch at the phone. "It does not—OK, it does say that."

"Yes—and I'll remind you that as stubborn as you are, I am a celestial being. I _will_ wait you out."

"Bossy. Have you always been this bossy?"

Cas puts on a very familiar glare—the one that accompanied, _"I dragged you out of Hell. I can throw you back in"_—and deadpans "Yes."

Dean feels a slight shiver go up his spine. "I don't know, Man," he admits. "I'm not ready for you to, like, put the moves on me, OK? But I'll admit, it's kinda nice to feel…wanted…or whatever."

"Dean, people desire you all the time. They tend to be very obvious about it."

"Well, who can blame them? I've got a nice ass."

"_Dean._"

"What do you expect me to say, Cas? That it makes a difference because it's you? You should _know_ that."

When Dean speaks next, his words are quieter to hide any warbling-weirdness that might be going on in his throat. "With most people, it's easy to tell they're into me physically because that's _all_ they're into—but you—you're my best friend—and an _angel_. I know you care about me—and that you like hanging out…. It's that other stuff I can't wrap my head around. Part of me still wonders if I just ate something weird and I'm hallucinating all this.

"So even if it's confusing and it makes me think about things I never really wanted to think about, I gotta know that I'm hearing you right—before I—" He's gonna shut up now is what he's going to fuckin' do.

"And my earlier flirtations today have not been enough to convince you?" Cas asks with a touch of concern, seemingly genuinely confused. "Have I been doing it wrong?"

"What? No! You've been, uh, doing great." And isn't that the most wince-worthy thing he's ever said?

"So, you're just being insecure then."

Dean keeps his mouth resolutely shut.

"Dean," Cas grumbles with squared shoulders. "I'm under a truth spell. I can in no way lie about the nature of my interest in you…. But maybe you're correct in saying that I'm not as besotted with your physical appearance as the people you are usually intimate with. It's not like I've gotten a chance to 'compare notes' with them so to speak-"

And isn't that one of the most terrifying mental images that has ever popped into Dean's head?

"Ultimately, I think I would probably feel the same about you no matter what form you were born in—whether you were female or looked more like Sam or were not traditionally aesthetically pleasing."

No, _that_ is the worst mental image Dean's ever been presented with. "You're telling me you would bone Sam?" he interrupts. "I think I'm going to throw up in my mouth a little bit."

Cas huffs in a way that sounds annoyed, like a tea kettle that _really_ wants you to know it's about to blow—except about ten octaves lower. "Do you _purposefully_ misinterpret what I say or are you genuinely that pessimistic?" he demands. Then a hand is on Dean's chin, tilting his head forward. "Dean, look at me."

He does—trying to look as annoyed as possible.

"Just from the response of women we encounter on cases, I can deduce that Sam is a very handsome man. But you know that I have never looked at him that way. He treats me like a brother and so do I. You are also very good looking, but part of what makes you so to me is that I can see your soul in your eyes… Your attitude is very apparent just in the way you hold yourself….

"And because _it's you_, I _do_ indulge in some more covetous looks and thoughts than I would with anyone else." Cas frowns at him. "Let me be clearer. Yes, I can be aroused by you. Yes, I _have_ been aroused by you. You should also wear green more often. Does that help?"

Dean's pretty sure the flush in his face extends all the way down to his chest. But he works to put on a serious expression. "Dude," he says, earnestly. "You can't just _say_ shit like that."

And yeah, Cas groans just like he thought he would, rubbing at his temples with his hands. "I wish that it was possible to hate you right now."


	22. Chapter 22

"So, what's next?" Dean asks once Cas no longer looks like he wants to smite him.

"You never answered the last question. You're supposed to-"

"Pick a personal problem, ask for your advice, yada, yada," Dean remembers.

Cas doesn't say anything, but the _Well?_ is clearly implied just by the weight of his stare.

"I, uh…." His wracks his mind the same way he wracks his dresser drawer for his favorite pair of boxers but comes up empty. "Look, Man, I know my life is nothing but problems. We kill monsters, more come take their place. Even Lucifer is planning a frickin' baby shower. And Mom keeps leaving like she always threatened to when I wanted more time on the playground as a kid. Except this time, she's not trying to trick me into hurrying my ass up. She just doesn't want to be around.

"And all that sucks. But," he shrugs. "They feel like out there problems. Like Future Dean problems. Nothing's really pressing on me at the moment." In fact, right here, right now with Cas, knowing Sam's safe down the hall probably mooning over his not-girlfriend, he feels about as happy as he's ever been.

Unbidden, a picture comes to his mind of him and Cas versus Sam and Eileen playing Pictionary someday. He and Cas would lose because Cas "didn't understand that reference." Meanwhile, Sam would be trying to convince the room that kale chips were just as good as potato chips until Dean decided to throw one at his head and—

_Woah, woah, woah. _

He's Dean Winchester. And Dean Winchester does _not_ think about this sort of crap.

God, it's like his brain got run through the blender and turned into something mushier than Sam's protein shakes.

"I accept your non-answer as an answer," Cas says, and Dean realizes that the angel has been studying him while he's been imagining his life as a '90s family sitcom. "Under the condition that you tell me if something of concern comes up."

"Scout's honor," Dean promises, barely stopping himself from doing the Vulcan salute because it reminds him of Charlie.

The angel looks at the phone again, "Complete this sentence: 'I wish I had someone with whom I could share…'"

Dean rolls his shoulders back. "I've already said it would be nice if some other hunters—ones I didn't know and don't really care about—wanted to share some of the responsibility for the next Apocalypse. But, other than that, I guess it seems like such a waste that Sam and I—and you—have this bunker and all this experience hunting monsters and no one to…pass it on to."

"You're talking about…wanting to be a parent?" Cas asks, curiously.

"What? No!" His voice should not be capable of getting that high. "Calm yourself down there, OK, Buddy?"

"I am calm," Cas says, confused. "I was just asking how to interpret your statement."

"I think that ship has sailed for me. Cool Uncle potential only. I just meant that Jody and the girls should come over here more often to hit this place up for some lore. I guess, other hunters could stop by too. You know, as long as they're trustworthy and won't drink all the beer."

"I'm sure some of Bobby's old network would appreciate an invitation."

"Have to run it by Sam first," Dean points out.

"Anyway, what about you?" he asks the air when Cas doesn't volunteer a follow-up. Surprisingly, he's only met with a longer moment of quiet as Cas frowns in the direction of his Vonnegut books. "Didn't think of anything?"

"No, I did," Cas admits.

"And…?"

"I wish I had someone I could complain about you to," the angel lets out in one determined breath.

Dean puts on a forced cocky smile. "_That's_ how you're going to use your genie in the bottle? Really?"

"Please don't take it in a bad way-"

"Now why would I do that?"

"It's just that—I don't have people in my life who aren't connected to you. The few angels I called friends once upon a time are either passed or—"

"—are douchebags."

"They have a very low opinion of humans and think that you and Sam are…an obsessive pet project of mine. But that means when you're so angry you won't talk to me or I find myself…confused by a potential sign of interest on your part, I don't have anyone to turn to who will understand my feelings without diminishing them. I have to sort the intricacies of our relationship out myself which is, admittedly, not my strong suit."

Dean almost starts to say something dismissive—but then he remembers what it was like after Sam left for Stanford—when Dad was pretty much all he had at times.

And talking to John Winchester about anything besides how much whiskey was left and whether or not all the guns were clean was pretty much like swinging a punching bag and then letting it swing back and hit you in the face. Even _he_ found it a little hard in those two years not to have someone around who he could have an (involuntary) heart-to-heart with.

Kinda desperately, he racks his brain for some sort of fix-it for this, his mind flashing through increasingly unlikely images of Cas talking to that Nora chick he used to work for, or going to confession, or joining a book club, Dean grimacing more with each mental picture.

Suddenly, he feels a light touch on his arm and startles slightly.

Cas just looks at him, waiting for him to relax, which he does after a second. After all, these moments aren't all that uncommon between them. If anything, _Dean_ usually initiates them more—squeezing Cas's shoulder in passing, helping him tighten his tie even though the angel has surely figured it out by now...

"I appreciate your obvious concern—but I don't think you can solve my lack of mutual friends any more easily than I could find other hunters to take up our roles saving the world. It's just how it is—whether we like it or not.

"And perhaps when…_if_…you ever feel comfortable with me telling Sam about this morning, that might help. He's your brother, but he's more neutral than some of our other acquaintances and can usually give me the best insight into your point of view."

Dean goes still almost immediately.

He can't help it. It's like what he said earlier—the moment they are in is nice. Safe. Detached from everything going on in the world and what anybody else might think. But that doesn't mean he's forgotten that dicks and their prejudices exist.

Even the idea of telling Sam about him potentially…dating (except it wouldn't just be 'dating' with Cas, would it?)…a man (man-shaped vessel) is…

"Sam wouldn't be weird about…this, right?" Dean asks, almost desperate, thinking with irony that this probably counts as a personal problem. "I mean, when Dad was ranting about him going off to school, he managed to throw in a few insults about how liberal Stanford was, so it's not like Sam would…?" Besides, he tells himself, he hasn't even admitted to liking anything yet…. It's all been Cas.

The angel must see the direction of Dean's rapidly spiraling thoughts because he moves to lift his hand off him, but Dean uses one of his own to keep it where it is just above his own wrist.

Because, OK, yeah, he's having a tiny panic attack, but he also remembers Cas standing in his doorway a few hours ago saying, "_I'm not expecting you to reciprocate, Dean…. I just realized how tired I was of pretending,_" and he's not gonna be that jerk who tells Cas to lock it all up again when the angel _just admitted_ he needed someone to talk to.

"Just…give me some time," he whispers to the angel. "Not…not a lot of it. Enough to get my head on straight. And then I'll tell Sam, I promise."

"Dean," Cas's eyes are soft, understanding. "I know that's a lot to ask of you…"

"And I've asked you for a lot more in the past. I _want_ to do this for you…probably a bit for me too, if I'm being honest. But not right now."

He squeezes Cas's hand when the angel nods.

"If it makes you feel better, I don't think Sam would have any problem with…. I'm pretty sure he's suspected my feelings for a while. And should _you_…" Cas trails off in a blush and Dean squeezes his fingers tighter.

"Let's just go on to the next question. OK?"

"Of course." Cas picks his phone up from where it has been abandoned on the bed, maneuvering it with his left hand since his right is still occupied.

"It's actually the last question," the angel says, sounding a little sad.

"If you were to die this evening, with no opportunity to communicate with anyone, what would you regret not having told someone? Why haven't you told them yet?"

The two of them look at each other.

"Nothing," they both say, simultaneously, Dean's hand moving up Cas's arm, unconsciously.

"I think you already know anything I haven't said yet. And you'll tell me when you're ready to hear it," Cas explains, leaning slightly into his touch.

"And I'm not gonna tell you something I'm not sure I mean just because the clock running out. You deserve better than that," Dean offers in turn.

And despite the many times they've misunderstood each other in the past, right now, they're perfectly in-sync, the way they get in the middle of a fight against a whole nest of vampires or when they're having a silent conversation behind Sammy's back.

Cas smiles half a smile and Dean smiles the other half. And maybe, someday, he'll be brave enough to try and fit those smiles together. But this moment already feels big and important just as it is.

"What now?" Dean asks, surprised by how dry his voice is, like he just woke up.

"Well, according to the directions on the website, we're supposed to look into each other's eyes for four minutes." Cas's lips quirk. "But we just did that for seven minutes and twenty-three seconds."

"Seriously?" Dean blinks, but it's _Cas,_ so, of course, he is. When another minute passes, he realizes they're halfway to another staring contest.

"You can still hang out though, right?" Dean asks, hopefully, trying to rack his mind for whatever movie will annoy Cas with inaccuracies the most.

"As long as you want me to, Dean."


	23. Chapter 23

Of course, Cas did have to go back to Heaven eventually to talk to a bunch of other angels about getting Lucifer a vasectomy. But, for once, Dean is kinda glad. He needs to sort himself out and it isn't always easy to think straight with the angel around.

_Straight. Heh. _

Well, at least he's joking about it now.

Sam probably thought they'd gotten in a fight before Cas left because Dean has been holing himself up in his room for almost a week now. But he doesn't want to talk this through with Sammy either.

Instead, he hauled the box of books out from under his bed, almost choking on a dust bunny in the process. If he then spent the next hour cleaning his already tidy room before actually cracking one open, no one had to know that but him.

It's weird reading what he thought back then. For example, his feelings for Lisa were both more and less than what he remembers them being. The book will describe her playing catcher for Ben while Dean tossed baseballs or stroking Dean's hair while they watched a movie together and he realizes he was damn lucky that someone like her gave him a chance at all—let alone a second and a third.

But he also sees that he held himself back a lot during that year—that after being emotionally wrung-out by the Apocalypse, he didn't have it in him to love her the way she deserved. As hard as leaving her and the apple pie life was, it still wasn't as hard as it _should_ have been.

As the days pass, Dean flips back and forth between books, not caring much about chronology. When he gets sick of reading about the time that he thought Cas was dead during the stint with the Leviathans, he switches to one where Team Free Will was all together, working a case. Still, it's hard not to pick up on some…uncomfortable…patterns.

His book-self paid attention to what Cas looked like _a lot. _Which was stupid because he looks the same all the damn time. Also, there was no way _that_ many people really insinuated they were a couple, right? Sure, Dean could remember Meg saying something or other—and Balthazar that one time—but Hester? Metatron? Crowley? Charlie? Rowena? He would've picked up on that.

What hits him the most is Sam, who had quietly Post-It noted passages like:

_Dean was used to guilt being a physical presence in his life. But not like this—never like this. He saw Cas everywhere—walking lonely highways besides the Impala, staring at him through motel room windows—looking as he had in Purgatory. _

_He wondered if he was going crazy. After everything he'd been through, that would hardly be surprising, and he should probably tell Sam before it put them both in danger. But his mind instantly rebelled against that idea. Because then Sam would try to _fix_ him—and a part of Dean didn't want that. Was fine with going batshit insane so long as he got to see Cas again…._

In blue pen, Sam had scrawled, _I get it. I used to see Jessica all the time, too._

Sam had also marked this gem:

_Dean didn't even think the waitress was all that cute, but Sam had noticed he hadn't been going out lately and he had a reputation to protect._

His brother had just written, _Seriously, Dean?_

Admittedly, that hadn't been his finest hour.

Dean sighs; he's just about to pick up another book when he hears a shuffle over by his desk and he quickly gets to his feet.

Before Cas did his whole _Beam Me Up, Scotty_ routine, they'd managed to find this Japanese rock garden in one of the storage rooms. Basically, it was a wooden box, lined with magic symbols, and filled with purple-colored sand. When Cas is up in Heaven, where his grace is strongest, he's able to manipulate the sand from a distance to spell out messages. In this case, it just says, _Hello, Dean._

_Heya, Cas, _Dean prays back, not bothering to hide his smile since Cas can't see it anyway. To be honest, having proof that the angel isn't just gonna run off without a word anymore had really helped ease some of his worries about…everything. _Got an ETA for when you'll be back home yet?_

_Likely tomorrow,_ the sand reads before getting wiped clean again. _If that's acceptable to you._

_How come you text like a 14 year old girl with every abbreviation and emoji under the sun, but when you're using magic to move sand, which has to be ten times harder, you sound like an 80-year old librarian? _Dean demands. _And yes, it's 'acceptable'._

The sand shakes itself. A message starts to form, then gets erased, until eventually, Dean is left with a crude picture of a cat. Dean doesn't think he's ever seen Cas draw anything before except for warding symbols (usually with his own blood). Without thinking, he gets his phone out and takes a picture of it.

Just in time, too. Cas wipes the image before writing, _I must go. Some of my brothers wish to confer._

_Give them the middle finger for me._

_Feel free to pray it to them yourself._

And with that, Dean can almost feel Cas's presence leave his side.

_So, tomorrow…_ he thinks, starting to pace the length of his room.

He wasn't lying when he said he'd be happy to see Cas—he's just terrified too.

/

When Cas said 'tomorrow', Dean didn't exactly expect to wake up with the angel perched on the chair next to his bed, looking at him across the darkness of the room. He startles a tiny bit at the sight, but then makes himself chill out. He'd told Cas he could watch over him, and it seems like such a human thing—for Cas to be impatient, maybe even a little anxious to find out what he has to say. So instead of going with any of the numerous one-liners that automatically spring to his head, he just croaks, "What time is it?"

"3:17," Cas admits, guiltily.

"And how long have you been there?"

"Since a little after 2."

"Did I say anything interesting in my sleep?"

Cas tugs on his tie and flashes a smile, "I believe 'giant ants' came up once or twice for some reason."

"They were trying to eat the giant pie."

"Ah."

And while a part of him thinks it's dangerous to have any sort of serious conversation when he's sleep-deprived, the floaty feeling in his head is kinda nice. Things don't seem as overwhelming at the moment.

"You know, Sam is always trying to teach me stuff. Useless crap that I don't really need taking up room in my brain," Dean yawns. "It's a wonder he hasn't made me fall asleep behind the wheel with how boring his lectures are….

"Some of it sticks though. Not by choice. It just…does. Like this time he was telling me about how infinity works in math."

Cas is clearly struggling to follow. Not the math part. He assumes the angel could out-Calculus his brother if there was ever any reason to. No, what he doesn't understand is where Dean's going with this. "I have a point, I promise," Dean murmurs, left side of his head still buried in his pillow. "Actually, could you come over here? _Some_ of us don't have night vision."

Cas shuffles the chair closer, the sound of him moving abnormally loud in the silence, but at last, he's about two feet away from Dean, leaning forward with his hands between his knees.

_He looks good,_ Dean allows himself to think. _Tired, but good._

"Anyway," Dean clears his throat against his fist. "Since you've been gone, I read Chuck's book about—about me kicking you out of the bunker…" (Incidentally, the same book that covered Cas popping his cherry, but Dean had skipped past that part for _all_ kinds of reasons). "And the way I saw things back then, it was about making a choice—between you or Sam. And I would do anything for my brother, so…that's why I did what I did.

"But…" Dean lets the quiet of the room soak into his voice. "I don't think I could make that choice again.

"I mean, I love my brother. Times infinity," Dean rushes to explain. "But you mean a lot to me too. Infinity minus one, maybe, compared to Sam. Only, the funny thing is, according to that math lesson he taught me all those years ago, infinity minus one is still just…infinity. I need _both_ of you to be OK if I'm ever going to be…"

Dean's been watching Cas this whole time—the angel's body becoming more and more statue-like as he talked. Now, he's so rigid Dean is half-tempted to push him over to see if he'll break—that is if he's not already broken. Why on earth did he think spilling his guts like that was a good idea?

Panic sets into his blood, waking him up faster than five cups of coffee, and he's wondering how he can beat a retreat from his own frickin' room when—

A hand clasps his shoulder.

"Dean…Dean, if you can stop whatever dangerous train your thoughts are on right now, I would tell you that hearing you say all that…" Cas shakes his head, smiling shyly. "Makes me indescribably happy."

Dean checks Cas's eyes, which look suspiciously bright. "Yeah?" he double-checks.

"Yes," Cas says with conviction.

"OK, that's…good," Dean murmurs, the words slightly shaky as he exhales.

"I hope you know that I'd do anything for you, too," Cas promises next, his voice soothing the hunter a little further.

"I know," Dean whispers. "You have."

And with that, he finds just a little more bravery. Enough courage to roll onto his back, holding Cas's arm in place on his shoulder so that the angel is forced to get up out of his chair to follow his movement. Enough courage to look up at Cas—half-standing, half-crouching over his bed—and, when he is sure Cas won't move away, to lift the hand that had been trapping the angel and raise it to Cas's own shoulder, so that their positions mirror each other.

Cas holds his breath. And Dean finds enough courage in that to drag his fingers from Cas's shoulder—to brush where the angel's collarbone would be if there wasn't so much fabric in the way—before letting them twine in the hair at the base of Cas's neck. It's soft compared to the stubble Dean can feel against his wrist.

_Damn._ Dean's heart is beating so fast he can hear it. And as he presses Cas's head down towards his own, it only pumps faster—each beat bleeding into the next until he wonders, vaguely, if he's old enough to have a heart attack.

He'd been planning to take this as slow as the rest of it—to move them closer inch by inch, giving them both a chance to back out if necessary. But apparently, Cas didn't get the memo because a second later, warm lips crash against his, already nipping, prodding—and Dean must not have gotten enough air, because his head's already spinning.

With a gasp, Dean tries to pull back as a spark (of grace? Or just Cas?) jumps through him, but the angel just chases his mouth and Dean's pulled in without thinking. His fingers tug at Cas's hair, causing the angel to growl from deep in his throat. Now, Dean's turned on a _lot_ of girls and they've made all sorts of delicious noises—but never have they sounded like the Impala revving, which is apparently a kink for him because now _he's_ tilting Cas's head for a better angle, it's _his_ tongue demanding entrance—and God, Cas _smells_ like—Cas _tastes_ like—Dean moans.

When he breaks away this time, he thinks that even _Cas_ looks a little winded—and Dean can't help but feel proud. And turned on. And sorta embarrassed about both those things, but it's not like he could expect himself to change overnight.

"Let me guess…. You learned that from the pizza man?" he asks to break the tension.

Cas looks at him, his eyes dazed, and that helps the pride a little bit. "I'd be willing to accept a new teacher," the angel murmurs, before the haziness suddenly clears. "That is if you…um…Did you…?"

"Are you really planning on asking me if something's 'acceptable' again?" Dean rolls his eyes to make up for the blush he still hasn't managed to shake off.

"Yes…?"

Dean sighs, rolling over so that his back is to the angel, feeling Cas tense behind him. He scoots a few paces forward to make room. "Are you just gonna stand there or are you going to join me like a normal person?"

"You…want…_me_…?"

"No, I want the _other_ person I was just making out with to crawl into my bed…. Just…get in here," he says, holding up the covers.

A few seconds later, he hears two thumps, which he assumes are Cas taking off his shoes. Then, the mattress dips—first near the middle, then along its whole length as Cas lays down. "I…don't know what we're doing," the angel admits, breathing the words into Dean's neck as he drops the blanket down again.

"Yes, well, me neither." After all, his experience doesn't mean all that much when it comes to man-shaped vessels. "But we'll figure it out later, OK?"

"Anything you want, Dean."

_You._ Dean confesses, but only to himself. Out loud, he says, "It was a good kiss, Cas." And, with that, the exhaustion of this morning pulls his eyelids down.

/

Sam comes into the kitchen the next morning, lifting his hands over his head in a yawn. He blinks when he sees his brother.

"Morning!" Dean greets him, deftly sliding pancakes onto a plate that already has half a dozen sausage links on it. "Your breakfast is over there," he says, pointing to a spinach omelet that he has made slightly less gross by completing covering it in cheese.

Sam walks over to the counter. "So, does this mean we're having breakfast together?" he asks, a tinge of reproach in his voice, and OK, Dean has some things to make up to his brother. But—

"Can't Sammy. Got plans for today," he says, picking up the plate, the syrup, and two forks.

Sam doesn't seem to notice the last part. "You know Netflix will still be there after breakfast," he says, arching his eyebrow, already picking at his own food.

"That's not all I do, Bitch," Dean insists, balancing everything against his chest as he starts making his way across the room.

"Yeah? And what else have you been up to lately?"

"Reading!" Dean yells back as he reaches the door. "Speaking of, I left something on the table for you." And with that, the door swings closed between them.

Sam sighs, wondering for the millionth time why he even bothers trying to talk to Dean when he catches sight of the book that his brother was talking about. It's one of Chuck's. One of the ones that Sam marked—and that sets off all kinds of alarm bells.

He reaches for it, cautiously, halfway wondering if Dean put a spell on it or something. Maybe, it's going to make all his hair fall off or make him speak backward for the rest of the week. But when he touches it, it still just seems like a book.

He opens it to the indicated page.

_Sam was in middle school the first time he ever heard the term Schrodinger's cat. It was a way of describing a paradox in quantum physics through a metaphor—one that involved a cat being sealed inside a box that may or may not contain enough radiation to kill it. The idea was that, since you couldn't see what was happening to the cat, it was considered both alive and dead simultaneously. Kinda made Sam wonder if Schrodinger had any associations with the occult—because weirdly specific metaphor, right?_

_And yet, the times that someone—like Claire—had pulled him aside to ask, "What's up with Dean and Cas? Are they together or…?"—Schrodinger's cat (now nicknamed 'Destiel' by Sam) always came to his mind. __Because__ the answer was __somehow—impossibly__—"yes" __AND "no" AND "both" AND "neither__." _

_And they'd been like that FOR YEARS. Sam tried a dozen times to get them to acknowledge it. But no matter how many hints he dropped or how many trips he arranged so that the two of them had to work in forced proximity, it seemed to make no difference to whatever they were. __Or weren't._

Sam stares at the text. Stares at what his brother crossed out of the text. Stares at the door his brother just walked out of. And then back at the book again. Did this mean…? Were they really…?

"Finally!" he yells to the empty kitchen, the echo of that one word traveling all the way through the bunker.

/

"I think your brother is happy for us," Cas remarks with a tilt of his head, giving Dean the perfect opportunity to kiss his neck.


End file.
